2 ;o THE ROLL OF THE SEASONS 



hen the fewer. We cannot say that her absence 

 makes much difference, if any, in the weekly tale of 

 eggs, nor does it occur to us for one instant to make 

 any difference in the amount of corn we scatter for 

 the flock. It is a quaint flock when it is assembled. 

 We cannot say what the breeder of some pure and 

 fantastic strain would say if his eye could roam over 

 it. Long ago, perhaps, the Brahma was king in this 

 poultry-yard. Then a lordly Dorking brought fresh 

 blood and new hopes in the heart of some bygone 

 farmer's wife. There are rumpled top-knots that 

 proclaim the reign for a space of the all-conquering 

 Houdan ; beautiful feathers that owe their origin to 

 a gold-spangled Hamburg or wild Ancona ; tumbling 

 combs that speak of the day when Black Minorcas 

 were the rage. To-day the White Leghorn is the 

 prevailing type, and the flock no doubt, if the truth 

 could be known, lays better than ever it did. Next, 

 the latest champion winter layer, the Buff Rock, will 

 probably have its day as soon as a sitting of eggs can 

 be procured. 



The ups and downs of the poultry-fancier's world 

 go to prove that, just as surely as an egg's an egg, so 

 a hen's a hen. It is likely that within a year we 

 could send up from our mixed flock a pen of pullets 

 that would lay against all the pure breeds that at 

 present fight for the highest honours. Certainly we 

 have known individual nondescript hens that would 

 lay in a given time one-sixth as many eggs as one of 

 those pens of six. On the other hand, the fancier 

 could get from our yard a new scheme of feathering 

 which he could work up into a breed that would 

 perhaps excite the envy of all other fanciers. The 



