408 
FANCIERS’ JOURNAL AND POULTRY EXCHANGE. 
Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1873, by Joseph M. 
Wade, in the office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
^ancier 3' Journal and^oultry (j^xciiANaE, 
JOSEPH M. WADE, Editor and Proprietor. 
Published Weekly at 39 North Ninth Street, Philadelphia. 
SUBSCRIPTION. 
Per Annum, $2 50 
Six Copies, one year, 12 00 
Specimen Copies, by mail, 10 
Per Annum to Canada, 2 70 
Per Annum to England, 3 54 
ADVERTISEMENTS 
From reliable parties, on any subject interesting to Fanciers, will be 
inserted at 10 cents per line, set solid ; if displayed, 15 cents per line ol 
space will be charged ; about 12 words make a line, and 12 lines make an 
inch of space. 
1 inch of space, set solid $1 20, displayed $1 80 
1 column, about 108 lines, set solid 10 80, “ 16 20 
1 page, 210 lines, solid 2160, “ 32 40 
Advertisements from unknown parties must be paid for in advance. 
Sherman & Co., Printers, Philadelphia. 
Our readers will find a contribution in this week’s Jour- 
nal , over the signature of that well known poultry fancier 
and ready writer, S. J. Bestor, on the Brahma question — 
“ Wright, et al v. Burnham.” The author informs us that 
he is personally unacquainted with both parties, hut judges 
from the testimony of both sides. Mr. Bestor is a gentle- 
man well known as an old breeder and fancier of poultry 
and pigeons, and well read ; a resident of Hartford, Conn, 
(the place where Wright says the Cornish fowls origina- 
ted) ; and having been for several years quite prominent in 
his own State society (its President for two years, if we 
remember right), his opinion is valuable, through its evident 
disinterestedness in the premises. We commend his article, 
therefore, on the “Origin of the Brahma Fowl” in this 
number, to careful perusal. — Ed. 
The Fanciers' Journal and Poultry Exchange is published | 
at 39 North Ninth Street, Philadelphia, by Jos. M. Wade, | 
who has the honor of starting tn this Country the first weekly 
poultry issue, an enterprise which Mr. Wade is just the 
right man to carry out. Mr. W. is one of the veteran fan- 
ciers of the country, who has been identified with the most 
advanced ideas and interests of breeders in this country for 
long years in the past. His name alone was sufficient to 
insure his weekly an immediate and earnest support, while 
his long experience and extensive acquaintance with the 
solid and well-read members of the fraternity, cannot fail 
to make his paper an invaluable acquisition to the poultry 
literature of the day. We have also found Mr. Wade uni- 
formly courteous in all his dealings, and unhesitatingly 
commend him and his paper to the fancy everywhere. Price, 
$2.50 a year. — Northwestern Poultry Journal. 
We are indebted to the Ithaca Daily Journal of June 11th, 
for the following, which would seem to indicate that there 
is an embryo Burnham somewhere in that locality : 
F0(U)WL LITERATURE. 
We happened to see a letter lying on the desk of one of 
our poultry fanciers, addressed to an eastern man, from 
whom he had received a sitting of eggs which proved unfer- 
tile, and as our friend is something of an admirer of fowls, 
he had rather sharply reproved his correspondent for the 
failure of his chickens, and in his comments hits him in this 
wise : 
I little thought from a descendant of the Mayflower, a 
Puritan of the original stock from the Pilgrim Fathers, 
raised in the land of steady habits and wooden nutmegs, 
would send out high-priced eggs, from which no chick could 
be evolved. Contrary to the Darwinian theory, the fittest 
did not survive. My Biddy-like Bachel refuses to be com- 
forted, and is weeping for her first born because they are 
not ; her nest is left unto her desolate. 
Not a peep was heard from one spherical cell, 
As from the nest each egg I tossed ; 
And I sadly thought, as I broke the shell, 
Of the cash I had foolishly lost; 
And I moralized thus with that motherly hen, 
As she mourned o’er the hopes she had cherished, 
That oft ere fruition, both with chickens and men, 
Our dreams are blasted and perish. 
And I thought how often our visions of bliss, 
Becomes dashed like these eggs, in a minute; 
And hope’s soft illusions in a moment like this 
Prove a shell — with no chicken in it. 
Hallo, old man ! Come take a drive, 
Abdallah ’s fresh and full of go, 
And on the road we ’ll strive 
To conquer ev’ry foe. 
Take care ! These wagons are so light 
That many an awkward lubber 
Has found himself empight 
As grovelling grubber. 
So on we move, with-quick’ning pace, 
To greet our friends with gladsome call, 
And challenge, for a race, 
The fleetest of them all. 
There ’s Jack ahead with his new nag, 
They say she ’s everything that ’s nice, 
And Joe throws out his flag 
Behind his horse, “ Dan Rice.” 
Look there! See how they edge away, 
Old Dan will try her mettle well ; 
The white horse loves the fray, 
And crushes many a swell. 
Let ’s take our turn and see the fun, 
It will not do to stay behind, 
For, when the race is done, 
They many a yarn will grind. 
THE RACE. 
DR. WILBUR P. MORGAN. 
Go on, Abdallah, shake your foot, 
Steady, boy, till you get your stride, 
Or you may overshoot 
The mark at which we ride. 
Now, at them, Ab! Well done, old Dan! 
Who taught you how to catch that break? 
That horse is a veteran 
That seldom makes a mistake. 
That glowing mare is sure as steel, 
She has not made a skip as yet, 
And shows us still her heel 
Without a single fret. 
Here is the test; this long incline, 
It leads to conquest or defeat, 
And at the end we dine ; 
The vanquished always treat. 
Just see how nearly now we bunch, 
The stylish mare one length ahead. 
Old Dan could eat his lunch 
From out our wagon bed. 
We ’re gaining on her, inch by inch, 
The aucientDaniel’s falling olf; 
Abdallah, do not flinch, 
Nor give them room to scoff. 
What team is that, so fast and fresh, 
That follows like pursuing late? 
It is urg’d on by lash, 
Brown Tom with running mate. 
The mare ’s broke up, but here ’s the team, 
Steady, Abdallah ! Steady, boy ! 
This is the last extreme 
That all our pow’rs employ. 
The shadow of that oak ’s the line, 
The tirst one o’er it wins the race; 
We’ll call our toast in wine 
If we can hold this pace. . 
How swift along the road we speed, 
Our glorious bay is levelling 
Himself to mighty deed; 
In dust he ’s revelling. 
We hold them at our wagon wheel, 
Their trotting horse is nearly blown, 
A moment more will seal 
The laurels all our own. 
They ’re making now their final burst, 
And so must we, or lose the heat ; 
Abdallah, be the first, 
And give our foes defeat. 
