FANCIERS’ JOURNAL AND POULTRY EXCHANGE, 
455 
brood came out in May, 1847, which I purchased in August, 
and the old pair in April following.” Thus, though he as- 
serts clearly, on March 2d, 1852, that Chamberlin did not 
“ bring his fowls into the State until 1849,” he “ purchased 
of Chamberlin the most of their first brood in August, 1847, 
and the old pair in April, 1848!” And in that same first 
letter (see Wright, page 16, and Miss Watts' Poultry Yard, 
page 62, printed in italics), Cornish says, “ it is certain they 
never were bred till they reached his town , in 1849 //” 
In next number of Fanciers’ Journal , I will conclude, 
and present some new information, never before published, 
to prove the utter falsity of the original “sailor” yarn, re- 
peated by the parties upon whom Mr. Wright unfortunately 
relies for his utterly groundless theory about “ Brahma-Poo- 
tras.” 
Melrose, Mass., July, 1874. 
(To be concluded next week.) 
MARK TWAIN ON POULTRY RAISING. 
Prom early youth I have taken an especial interest in the 
subject of poultry-raising. Even as a schoolboy, poultry- 
raising was a study with me, and I may say without egotism 
that as early as the age of seventeen I was acquainted with 
all the best and speediest methods of raising chickens, from 
raising them off' a roost by burning lueifer matches under 
their noses, down to lifting them oft' a fence on a frosty 
night by insinuating the end of a warm board under their 
heels. By the time I was twenty years old, I really suppose 
I had raised more poultry than any one individual in all the 
section round about there. The very chickens came to know 
my talent, by and by. The youth of both sexes ceased to 
paw the earth for worms, and the old roosters that came to 
crow, “ remained to pray,” when I passed by. 
I have had so much experience in the raising of fowls 
that I cannot but think that a few hints from me might 
be useful. The two methods I have already' touched upon 
are very simple, and are only used in the raising of the 
commonest class of fowls ; one is for summer, the other for 
winter. In the one case, you start out with a friend along 
about eleven o’clock on a summer’s night (not later, because 
in some States — especially in California and Oregon — 
chickens always rouse up just at midnight and crow from 
ten to thirty minutes, according to the ease or difficulty 
they experience in gitting the public waked up), and your 
friend carries with him a sack. Arrived at the hen-roost, 
(your neighbor’s, not your own) you light a match and hold 
it under first one and then another pullet’s nose until they are 
willing to go into that bag without making any trouble 
about it. You then return home, either taking the bag 
with you or leaving it behind, according as circumstances 
shall dictate. N. B.— I have seen the time when it was 
eligible and appropriate to leave the sack behind and walk 
off with considerable velocity, without ever leaving any 
word where to send it. 
In case of the other method mentioned for poultry', your 
friend takes along a covered vessel with a charcoal fire in 
it, and you carry a long slender plank. This is a frosty 
night, understand. Arrived at the tree, or fence, or other 
hen-roost (your own, if you are an idiot), you warm the 
end of your plank in your friend’s fire vessel and then raise 
it aloft and ease it up gently against a slumbering chicken’s 
foot. If the subject of your attentions is a true bird, he 
will infallibly return thanks with a sleepy cluck or two, and 
step out and take up quarters on the plank, thus becoming 
so conspicuously accessory before the fact to his own mur- 
der as to make it a grave question in our minds, as it once 
was in the mind of Blackstone, whether he is not really and 
deliberately committing suicide in the second degree. [But 
you enter into a contemplation of these legal refinements 
subsequently — not then.] 
When you wish to raise a fine, large, donkey-voiced 
Shanghai rooster, you do it with a lasso, just as you would 
a bull. It is because he must be choked, and choked effect- 
ually, too. It is the only good, certain way, for whenever 
he mentions a matter which he is cordially interested in, 
the chances are ninety-nine in a hundred that he secures 
somebody else’s immediate attention to it, too, whether it be 
day or night. 
The Black Spanish is an exceedingly fine bird and a cost- 
ly one. Thirty-five dollars is the usual figure, and fifty a 
not uncommon price for a specimen. Even its eggs are 
worth from a dollar to a dollar and a half apiece, and yet 
are so unwholesome that the city physician seldom or never 
orders them for the workhouse. Still I have once or twice 
procured as high as a dozen at a time for nothing, in the 
dark of the moon. The best way to raise the Black Spanish 
fowl, is to go late in the evening and raise coop and all. 
The reason I recommend this method, is, that the birds 
being so valuable, the owners do not permit them to roost 
around promiscously, but put them in a coop as strong as a 
fire-proof safe and keep it in the kitchen at night. The meth- 
od I speak of is not always a bright and satisfying success, 
and yet there are so many little articles of vertu about a 
kitchen, that it you fail on the coop, you can generally 
bring away something else. I brought away a nice steel 
trap, one night, worth ninety cents. 
Whenever you are ready to go raising poultry, call for 
me any evening after eleven o’clock and I shall be on hand 
promptly . — Mark Twain. 
THE IMPATIENT HEN. 
This is a tale of a queer old hen, 
That sat on eggs exactly ten ; 
She made her nest with pride and care, 
And weather foul or weather fair 
You always found her at her post, 
For patience was her daily boast. 
Alas 1 how oft it is our lot 
To brag of what we haven’t got. 
The sun began to warmer grow, 
The grass and leaves began to show 
Their twinkling green on hill and vale, 
And sweet and pleasant was the gale. 
This queer old lien began to long 
To join once more the noisy throng 
Of idle gossips — half a score — 
That strutted by the old barn door. 
“ O, dear 1 O, dear 1 here I am tied — 
A weary lot is mine,” she sighed ; 
“ No gleam of pleasure do I catch — 
Why don’t these tiresome chickens 
hatch ? 
It worries me, in heart and legs, 
To sit so long upon these eggs ; 
I’m sick of pining here at home, 
O, chicks, chicks, chicks, why don’t 
you come? 
Your little houses, white and warm, 
I’ve sheltered from the angry storm, 
“There’s Mother Dominique next 
door, 
Her darlings number twenty-four, 
And they’ve been out a week or more, 
And now she wanders at her ease, 
As proud and happy as you please. 
So stir your pinky little pegs, 
My yellow bills, come out and walk, 
Or else I’ll doubt my eggs are eggs, 
And think they are but lumps of chalk.” 
Then something rash and sad befell— 
This old hen pecked each brittle shell ; 
And then, ’tis wonderful to tell, 
Her treatment, which was very rude, 
Killed on the spot her tiny brood 1 
And now, despised by fowls and men, 
She lives a broken-hearted hen. 
This is the moral of my lay — 
To reap success in work and play, 
Why spoil whatever you’ve begun, 
Through eagerness to have it done? 
Kemember poor Dame Partlet’s fate ; 
Don’t be impatient 1— learn to wait. 
