THE DEAD TREE’S DAY. 
It is the theory that there are always plenty 
of hens to be bought in a New England farming 
town; but as a matter of fact, in the month 
of July, 1892, the country north of Beareamp 
presented such a dearth of hens that, after 
traveling miles in my efforts to buy some, I re¬ 
turned to my own neighborhood and hired a 
contingent for the season. The transaction 
was unique, but, on the whole, mutually satis¬ 
factory. It had one drawback. When one 
owns fowls, the accumulation of family wrath 
against the rooster on account of too early crow¬ 
ing on his part always finds relief in eating 
him; but when one hires a rooster, his life is 
charmed by contract, and he can with impu¬ 
nity crow the family into nervous prostration. 
The magnificent Black Spanish cock hired by 
me began crowing, on the morning of August 
21, at twenty minutes of four. Not a ray of 
daylight pierced the bank of mist which filled 
the east. Nothing but instinct or a bad con¬ 
science could have told Murillo that it was time 
to crow. Nevertheless, on this occasion his 
