MY FARM OF EDGEWOOD 



arrangement, matured with the co-operation 

 of an ingenious country carpenter, by which 

 my fowls were to lay in one set of boxes, care- 

 fully darkened, and to carry on their incuba- 

 tion in another set of boxes, made cheery 

 (against the long confinement), with sky- 

 light; there were admirable little architectural 

 galleries through which they were to prome- 

 nade in the intervals of these maternal duties 

 —adroit disposition of courts, and feeding 

 troughs, so that there should be no ill-advised 

 collision,— but it was all in vain. Hens per- 

 sisted in laying where they should not lay, and 

 in setting, with badly directed instinct, upon 

 the dreariest of porcelain eggs. The fowls 

 of my Somersetshire neighbor, meantime, at 

 the stone cottage, with nothing more orderly 

 in the way of nests than a stray lodgment in 

 the haymow, or a castaway basket looped un- 

 der the rafters of a shed, brought out brood 

 after brood, so full, and fresh, and lusty, as to 

 put my architectural devices to shame. 



At certain times, when the condition of the 

 garden or crops allow it, I permit my fowls 

 free forage; and as they stroll off over the 

 lawn and among the shrubberies, it sometimes 

 happens that they come in contact with the 

 more vagabond birds of the larger farm fam- 



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