ALL THINGS COME TO HIM WHO WAITS. 



The oldest inhabitant of the barnyard 

 could not remember the time when 

 Benedict Arnold, or ''Old Ben, the De- 

 coy/' as he was called, had been young. 

 There was a tradition to the effect that 

 some wild geese eggs had been found 

 in a field one day, brought home and 

 set under a big Buff-Cochin hen; that 

 six of the eggs hatched and that the 

 goslins led their foster mother through 

 such feather raising adventures that to 

 this day there is a saying in the yard: 

 "As bad as the Buff-Cochin's troubles." 



The tradition further stated that five 

 of the goslins succumbed to the dan- 

 gers that beset their young lives, and 

 the recounter invariably added in a low 

 voice — always a very low voice — that it 

 was a great pity Old Ben didn't have 

 the same luck. Old Ben survived, how- 

 ever, to rule the barnyard with an iron 

 wing and to lure many of his kind to 

 a tragic fate. On a crisp fall day the 

 decoy and his master might have been 

 seen betaking themselves to a field of 

 stubble or some other feeding ground 

 of the wild geese. The hunter, after 

 staking Old Ben. would take cover in 

 a carefully constructed pit. Soon the 

 familiar honk of the wild goose rings 

 out. The feeding flock, hearing the 

 well known sound, draw near, then a 

 shot gun sings and wounded and dead 

 birds are falling. 



Whether Benedict enjoyed this per- 

 fidious betraying of his brothers, or 

 whether these crimes born of his slav- 

 ery were revolting to him, it was im- 

 possible to tell. I have often watched 

 him returning from some expedition, 

 surrounded by the spoils of the hunt, 

 and wondered whether his discordant 

 notes betokened anguish or triumph; 

 whether that stride with its side-long 

 swing was a swagger, or if his burden 

 of woe was so great he staggered. 



One thing sure: Be it grief or joy he 

 felt, his duplicity and deeds of darkness 

 had a most disastrous effect upon his 

 disposition. The cheerful songs of the 



barnyard found no echo in his heart; 

 even the innocent peepings of novices 

 fresh from the shell failed to inspire him 

 with the proper sentiments. The pea- 

 cock never tried but once to dazzle Old 

 Ben with the glories of his tail, the 

 haughtiest gobbler grew humble before 

 him. Even Prince Charlie, the lordli- 

 est cock that yard had ever known, and 

 prodigiously vain of his clarion note 

 reaching many fields away, maintained 

 a discreet silence when tlae decoy was 

 near. There had been a time when 

 Prince Charlie, conscious of his own 

 importance, and secure in the knowl- 

 edge that he descended from game 

 stock, confidently disputed leadership 

 with Old Ben, but the powerful blows 

 of the decoy's wings, and the fierce 

 stabs of his beak, considerably weak- 

 ened Prince Charlie's faith in his an- 

 cestry. 



The belle of the yand was Betty, a 

 charming young thing with a comb red 

 as a rose and glossy feathers a beauti- 

 ful golden brown. Her graceful man- 

 ners and coquettish airs equalled her 

 beauty, and all from Prince Charlie to 

 Master Bantum were her devoted 

 slaves. Her feelings may be imagined 

 then, when one day, in full view of her 

 giggling rivals. Old Ben seized her by 

 the wing and gave her a violent shak- 

 ing. 



It happened this way: Old Ben arose 

 one morning (after a most successful 

 hunt) in a really shocking frame of 

 mind. Breakfast had just been brought 

 to the barnyard and a bevy of hens 

 were hurrying from an empty grain 

 house to the full pans. At the door, 

 however. Old Ben barred the way, driv- 

 ing the more timorous back and giving 

 a vigorous peck or blow to the daring 

 few who passed him. Betty determined 

 to neither be cheated of her breakfast 

 nor submit to such treatment. A small 

 window directly over the door opened 

 from the loft, and from this window she 

 proposed to alight at a safe distance. 



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