THE RUMPLESS FOWL. 



Two years ago, in the village of Walton, a common barn-door hen 

 with a rump laid eighteen eggs under a hedge which separates a 

 little meadow from the highway. There was not a rumpless male 

 fowl in all the village, or in the adjacent country. The mowers 

 were cutting the grass just as the old hen was hatching her young. 

 She was killed by a stroke of the scythe, and two chickens were all 

 that could be saved from the wreck. One of the mowers conveyed 

 the two young birds in his hat to the villager who had owned the hen, 

 and whose house was hard by. She brought them up at the fireside. 

 They were male and female. The male was rumpless, and without 

 a tail, whilst the female had a rump, and a tail of ordinary size. 



When the former had become a full-grown fowl, I introduced to it 

 a rumpless hen, by way of companion. She laid fourteen eggs, and 

 sat upon them with great perseverence, but every egg proved addle. 

 After this, she produced a dozen more in the course of the summer 

 and she sat upon them, but with no better success. I then substi- 

 tuted a male fowl with a tail in lieu of her rumpless paramour, and 

 they soon became a loving couple. She laid well the summer fol 

 lowing, and sat twice ; but her repeated efforts to produce a family 

 were of no avail. During her last sitting, a Malay hen, of prying 

 habits, took the opportunity of her momentary absence from the 

 nest, and laid an egg in it. This produced a chicken, which the 

 rumpless stepmother reared with maternal care. 



It would appear, from these experiments, that the rumpless fowl is 

 not prolific. But Cervantes tells us that one swallow does not make 

 summer " Una golondrina, no hace verano." Wherefore further 

 investigation is absolutely necessary before the affair in question can 

 be set at rest. However, the testimony which follows tends to prove 

 that the rumpless fowl is fully capable of producing its race. 



There lives, in the village of Walton, an old woman notorious for 

 rearing poultry. Her name is Nanny Ackroyd. Some few years 

 ago I had seen a pair of rumpless fowls feeding at her door. I called 

 on Nanny the other day, and I asked her where she had procured 

 the fowls, and if they had ever had a brood. She told me that she 

 had got them from the Isle of Wight, and that they had produced 

 seven rumpless chickens, which she sold at the Market Cross, in 

 Wakefield, but that she could not get the full price for them, as her 



