Reveries of a Rooster 
Overfat hens mean empty nests. 
How long we’ve lived not years but liars tell. 
To turn hens into dollars you must use common sense. 
The female of our species is more welcome than the male. 
Man wants but little here below, and most of him is getting it. 
The ‘'strictly fresh” you see so often may have reference to the clerk. 
Believe me, my countrymen, there is no such thing as a pretty good egg. 
Keep your hens in comfort and they’ll do their best to return the compliment. 
Seest thou a man diligent in business—let him look out for the Attorney 
General. 
If it be true that I would rather crow than work, is it not equally true of the 
rest of men? 
Consider now the hen, who tries not to attract attention till she has first 
delivered the goods. 
It has taken the world a long time to wake up to the fact that there is a 
science of poultry raising. 
The old idea was trust to luck and get eggs sometimes. The new idea is 
use intelligence and get eggs all the time. 
With eggs 60 cents a dozen and steak 30 cents a pound, it must keep the 
common people busy trying to decide whether to keep their hens for eggs or kill 
them for meat. 
’Tis something in the dearth of fame, though linked among a henpecked race, 
to feel at least an honest shame, even as I crow suffuse my face; for what is left 
the rooster here—the ax for Mr. Chanticleer. (Apologies to Byron.) 
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