COUNTRY GENTLEMAN’S COMPANION. 
June 5. 
171 
POULTRY. 
IS THE CROWING OF A COCK A NUISANCE ? 
“ I am one of the many who keep a few fowls for amuse¬ 
ment. ‘ They have not yet been profitable,’ and I this 
morning received a threatening letter, a copy of which you 
will find over. Perhaps you or some poultry-keeper will he 
able to inform me, if upon any occasion legal proceedings 
have been taken, and if so, what was the result?—C. C.” 
(Copy.) 
ONE OF THE REGENT STREET NUISANCES. 
Mr. - 
Sir,—On making inquiry, I find you are the owner of a 
male bird which has for three weeks past made such a 
cackling, as well as an unearthly crow, from about three 
o’clock in the morning, until seven or eight, that it is 
out of the question to get any sleep at all in Regent-street. 
Perhaps you will have the goodness to remove the nuisance 
with this hint as promptly as your neighbour has, and not 
compel me to bring the matter forward in other quarters. 
H. M- g. 
[We are clearly of opinion that the crowing of a cock is 
no nuisance. Nothing is a nuisance, according to law, that 
is not injurious to another person. Did any of our readers 
ever know of proceedings taken to silence a chanticleer ?] 
SPANISH FOWLS PLUCKING OFF FEATHERS. 
“ I am a great admirer of Black Spanish Poultry, and 
had a most beautiful cock of the above sort, but of late he 
has allowed the hens to pluck him about the throat in that 
manner that I am grieved to see him. I have tried rubbing 
with aloes and other nauseous things, but to no purpose. 
Can you please to inform me, through your valuable journal, 
of a remedy ?—P. H.” 
[Your birds are probably in an irritated state from high 
feeding and confinement. Separate the cock from them 
for a week or two ; keep them all upon lower diet, and give 
them plenty of green food.] 
LITTLE CALLA AND OUR PLAYGROUND. 
Soft sunbeams come gleaming from the sky of other 
years—struggling they come, through mist and clouds— 
patches of blue, too, as I lift the veil. 
My eyes, as I muse, are stealing under a little white 
bonnet beside me, as I talk of the nice time we will have 
“ down in the Hollow,” after school time—I note, too, the 
sweet smile that comes over the red lips of little Calla, 
through which a dandelion stem is curling; for cherry 
bright they were then, pale as they have since laid on their 
colfin pillow. 
“Mary must go too,” said our white-cheeked one. “And 
we will tell Lib,” said I, “ as soon as Miss Clarissa has 
turned her back.” 
Plow little Calla laughed! gleesome as a robin sings— 
while a faint red came through her skin ever stainless as the 
thick petals of the pure Egyptian flower. But the colour 
vanished as if it was a stranger there, and a timid one. 
Oh, what a place that old “ Hollow ” was !—so full of 
sunshiny dingles, where heaps of violets grew, and little 
coral berries, that nobody could find as soon as the pale one, 
with her soft dark eyes, hunting away so still and quiet by 
herself—then, too, the green-turf-covered little hillocks 
deemed so precipitous! How alps on alps arose in that ant¬ 
hill glen ! To climb them was like the ascent of Mount 
Washington; and in winter, Mount Blanc with its eternal 
snows seemed to involve to the traveller no greater perils, or 
its summit to inspire no greater ambition to reach, than the 
tops of the sparkling crusted elevations that rose out of 
that magic basin ; for whether a winter’s sun shone upon it, 
with its cold clear light, or crimsoned its icicles and snowy 
banks with a rosy glow; or summer dews fell upon its 
daisied turf, and filled its golden buttercups, a sweet play¬ 
ground was the old Hollow that lay on the bank of 
the blue Connecticut. 
How full is it now with associations of our angel Calla—she 
whose fairy life was woven with all the golden threads in my 
horizon—she whose childhood was sweeter, sunnier, and 
purer than aught of earth that memory awakens—she whose 
bright genius would have signalized her as a star, had her 
light longer emitted on earth—who passed away in her 
fading loveliness ere her sixteenth summer had come, but 
not until she had nestled herself in the bosom of her Saviour, 
and folded her white wings in the arms of Redeeming 
Love. 
Yes—“ carry me back ” to the old Hollow ! Let me follow 
the narrow path, to the top of the hill—overlooking the 
green wavelets of verdure below. You know it well, “ Lib,” 
for you were oft my fellow-rambler ; and Mary, though now 
sad and widowed, with earth’s woes for life’s legacy. You 
can find the path under the apple trees at sunset; and hear 
the rustling of the elms as they stooped to kiss the little 
brook that dashed through the Hillocks, sparkling and bright; 
and well as Aunt Molly can see the long shadows that come 
aslant the ground, even to the garden fence, through which 
peeped red and damask roses. You can see, too, the golden 
sunlight, as it danced on the quivering leaves, where the 
robins had their nests; making your rich locks more bright, 
while the stealing twilight deepens your eyes soft blue. 
But who comes through the wicker-gate from the judge’s 
premises—fiying on a zephyr’s wing ? Her hair is golden 
and fleecy, and hangs radiant around her pure white face, 
where the softest rose-tints gleam ! She has come to join 
our frolics. 
The stately judge, with his gold specs and elegant mien, 
is pacing near by, perchance watching us, or pondering on a 
law case awaiting his decision—which ever it may he, he is 
proud of his little granddaughter. 
But yesterday I saw her of whom I speak. She was 
robed in sable velvet, a rich train swept at her feet, a mantle 
of costly lace covered her still beautiful shoulders, and 
enveloped her full rich form. The blue of her eye was 
saddened—the soft hue of her complexion was faded; but 
her air was queenlike and admiration followed her footsteps. 
To others she was but the elegant intellectual woman; I 
thought of the little girl with her golden ringlets, as she 
swung upon the wicker-gate that opened on to our play¬ 
ground. 
Oh, who has not an old Hollow to remember, where the 
birds sang in childhood as they will never seem to sing 
again, where the apples hung golden as California's gems, 
where the violets were bluer, and the tops of the trees 
seemed nearer the sky, than all the “ heaven-kissing hills ” 
of later years ? 
Our homes were clustered around the basin. Only our 
kitchen-garden, and dear mother’s flower-plat, in which 
Calla and I had our parterre, and my younger brothers had 
their pop-corn hillocks and pea-nut shrubs, separated us 
from the rear of ours ; and the stars often shone down upon 
us, before we reached the parental nest. 
But the first lightning-bug was a signal, and home we 
went by the light of its tiny wing; and glad was the welcome 
that ever greeted us from the voice that grew sweeter and 
more cheerful at the eager call of “ mother.” 
A child’s flower-bed ! A simple enclosure of six feet of 
soil, and yet how boundless, and how replete with beauty to 
the eye that seeks at sunrise for the first blue or crimson 
blossom that may open its petals to the morning light! 
With what eagerness the little frail stem that drooped at 
evening is scanned ere the dew-beads have ceased to glitter 
on its tender leaves—and glad as a young mother welcomes 
the smile of her sick infant, the little one beholds the lifted 
head of her revived green sajding. 
Each little tuft of Heart’s-ease with its purple and yellow 
blossoms—each trailed Morning-glory’s violet and rose- 
colored bells, as they opened their cups to the sun, arc 
pictured in my little garden. But the Lily of the Valley, hid 
in its leaf of green, pure as the dew it bathed in, was to my 
eye sweetest and most beautiful; and who but little Calla had 
such an array of pinks and tulips sentinelled by planted 
sticks, each with a floating banner heralding the coming 
forth of more starry and bright winged messengers ! —for are 
