332 THE FAT OF THE LAND 
siestas, nor do tree men make their lives hideous 
with lithographs of impossible fruit on improbable 
trees. Whether I am indebted to one or to all 
of these conditions for my full egg baskets, I am 
unable to say; but I do not purpose to make any 
change, for my egg baskets are as full as a 
reasonable man could wish. As nearly as I can 
estimate, my hens give thirty per cent egg re- 
turns as a yearly average — about 120 eggs for 
each hen in 365 days. This is more than I ask 
of them, but I do not refuse their generosity. 
Every egg is worth, in my market, 2% cents, 
which means that the yearly product of each 
hen could be sold for $3. Something more than 
two thousand dozen are consumed by the home 
colony or the incubators ; the rest find their way 
to the city in clean cartons of one dozen each, 
with a stencil of Four Oaks and a guarantee that 
they are not twenty-four hours old when they 
reach the middleman. 
In return for this $3 a year, what do I give 
my hens besides a clean house and yard? A con- 
stant supply of fresh water, sharp grits, oyster 
shells, and a bath of road dust and sifted ashes, to 
which is added a pinch of insect powder. Twice 
each day five pounds of fresh skim-milk is given 
to each flock of forty. In the morning they 
have a warm mash composed of (for 1600 hens) 
50 pounds of alfalfa hay cut fine and soaked all 
night in hot water, 50 pounds of corn meal, 50 
pounds of oat meal, 50 pounds of bran, and 20 
