354 
boys’ department. 
MY RABBITS. 
In looking over our “Farm Every-Day-Book” 
this evening, according to my usual custom, I find 
the following entry, made just one year ago : “ Ed¬ 
ward discovered a nest of seven young rabbits in 
the pasture lot, F.” He was engaged in cutting 
down some bushes, when he noticed a small layer 
of dry twigs, over which his scythe had just passed, 
to be violently agitated. At first, he supposed that 
it concealed a litter of field mice; but a raw Hiber¬ 
nian curiosity induced him to investigate further 
before signing their death warrant. His patience 
was rewarded by the appearance of the seven little 
rabbits, with shining black eyes, long, delicate ears, 
and fat, sleek bodies, huddled together—thanks to 
their bed quilt—unconscious of harm. He replaced 
everything as he found it, and then continued his 
work. I did not hear of the discovery until dinner 
time, when, as a matter of course, I started off at 
full speed to prosecute the examination. 
That night, I dreamed of rabbits, and my eager 
footsteps bruised the chaste dew drops, on the 
asture lot, early the following morning, and 
became convinced of the pleasure and profit 
of rabbit breeding. In various imaginary profit 
and loss accounts, the balance was ever large¬ 
ly in my favor. But, like the unfortunate milk 
maid of fable, I was counting my chickens before 
they were hatched. 
As I had made up my mind to embark in the 
business, my first care was to provide suitable ac¬ 
commodations for the foundlings, they being my 
“stock in trade.” Two large soap boxes convert¬ 
ed into one, with slats in front, inclined floor, and 
projecting roof, made certainly a very good, if not 
a handsome hutch. It was hung up on the shady 
side of a shed, secure from the attacks of vagrant 
dogs or cats. 
For two long weeks, my labor remained unap¬ 
preciated, as I wished to capture not only the little 
fellows but the old doe herself. In this, however, 
I was disappointed. She was ever from home, 
when any person approached the nest, was too cun¬ 
ning to be caught in a box trap, and above being in¬ 
toxicated by parsley steeped in pure Cognac. So, 
at last, I was willing to take the young ones alone, 
lest I should lose not only the doe but them also. 
In a short time after removal to their new quar¬ 
ters, their limbs were strengthened by exposure to 
the air, and they gave vent to their spirits by sun¬ 
dry gambols around their cage, very interesting to 
all concerned. Of course, they were unacquainted 
with the necessary arts of eating and drinking. To 
prevent starvation, I gave each one, through a quill, 
every two hours, a little warm milk directly from 
the cow; but, before the end of a week, they would 
drink from a shallow saucer, and nibble upon ten¬ 
der cabbage leaves. 
By the middle of October, my pets (with the ex¬ 
ception of one that died), had grown to be large, 
and looked very healthy, much to the astonish¬ 
ment of Uncle ’Nezer, a neighbor who had predicted 
my failure. About the time when the hutch was 
placed under the shed for winter quarters, a fat 
brace was put into the pot for dinner. And soon 
afterwards, one of the two remaining bucks killed 
the other, through jealousy, as was supposed. 
Two bucks in the same cage are like two raothers- 
in-law in the same house—the walls are not far 
enough apart. An intelligent lad, who called upon 
us one day on business, fancied my large buck* 
and, on a promise to bring another in exchange,, 
carried him off, which w T as the last I have seen of 
either. Now only two remained, one of which 
died during the winter (perhaps of a broken heart),, 
and was thrown into the dung heap. 
The seventh and last was alive and well the 
beginning of spring. But the vegetable bins and 
grain boxes suffered a little in consequence. She 
was too anxious to regain her liberty, however, to 
suit me altogether; her devotion to the goddess of 
the cap was manifested by gnawing away sundry 
parts of her cage some dozen times, which caused 
me some little trouble to replace. Disgusted with 
rabbit keeping, I was thinking about opening the 
cage door, when her death decided the question* 
One afternoon in March, she slipped her leg be¬ 
tween the slats, and, before she could be extricat¬ 
ed, it was broken. Poor little thing— Vale ! 
At the expiration of six months, my seven rab¬ 
bits were all gone. The hutch was empty ! Quite 
an unfortunate conclusion to my experiment. 
What was the cause, I cannot say; it was not 
want of care nor food. I leave the question with 
the kind reader, who may rest assured, that if f 
undertake the keeping of rabbits again, he shall 
know it. Calvin Coulter, Jr. 
Hawthorn Hedges , N. /., Aug. 20th, 1848. 
CHANCE OR LUCK. 
One dark stormy morning last winter, a thought¬ 
ful little boy sat knitting by the fire, while his 
mother was preparing the fragrant buckwheat cakes 
for breakfast. For a long time he was perfectly 
quiet, as if something puzzled him. At last, he 
looked up and said: “ Mother, what do you al¬ 
ways put an odd number of stitches on my stock¬ 
ings for I” “ Because it leaves one for the seam 
stitch, and makes the rest even on the needle,” she 
replied. 
The boy laughed, quite satisfied with the explana¬ 
tion, if not of the necessity of the thing, and went 
on with his work. Presently, he looked up againj 
and said: “ Mother, why do you always put thir¬ 
teen eggs under the setting hen—does she like it 
best“ I do not know if she cares about it,” 
said she, “ but I do it for good luck—odd numbers 
are the most lucky.” The thoughtful boy was not 
satisfied; and, after a pause, he again said; “ Why; 
mother, Squire Miller told George it was to make 
more sure of having twelve chickens, for we might 
always count upon having one bad egg in every 
dozen, and he liked to have an even dozen of 
chickens or ducks, in every brood.” Is not the 
Squire right I Customs are often the results of ne¬ 
cessity or experience, and in this case, he has, I 
doubt not, given the origin of a practice, almost 
universal among our farmers from a vague idea of 
good or ill luck attending it ■ but which, is in reality, 
perpetuating a silly superstition. 
“ The fool saith in his heart, there is no God”—« 
and so does every one who believes in chance m 
luck , whether he acknowledges it even to himself 
or not. E. S. 
. Eutawah , September. 1848. 
