“Do ducks pay you?” I asked.

“Wall, I’m gettin’ to be somewhat of a bigotist,” he said; “I barely git a livin’.”

“Why Mr. Crankin—­” I began.

The name roused his jealous ire, and his voice, a low mumble before, now burst into a loud roar.  “Yes, Crankin makes money, has a sight o’ incubators, makes ’em himself, sells a lot, but some say they don’t act like his do when they git off his place; most on ’em seem possessed, but Crankin, he can manage ’em and makes money too.”

“Do your ducks lay much?”

“Lay!  I don’t want ’em to lay!  Sell ’em all out at nine weeks, ’fore the pin feathers come; then they’re good eatin’—­for them as likes ’em.  I’ve heard of yure old lot.  Kill ’em, I say, and start new!”

“Crankin says—­”

“I don’t care nothing what Crankin says” (here the voice would have filled a cathedral), “I tell ye; me and Crankin’s two different critters!”

So I felt; but it would not do to give up.  I purchased an expensive incubator and brooder—­needn’t have bought a brooder.  I put into the incubator at a time when eggs were scarce and high priced, two hundred eggs—­hens’ eggs, ducks’ eggs, goose eggs.  The temperature must be kept from 102 deg. to 104 deg..  The lamps blazed up a little on the first day, but after that we kept the heat exactly right by daily watching and night vigils.  It engrossed most of the time of four able-bodied victims.

Nothing ever was developed.  The eggs were probably cooked that first day!

Now I’m vainly seeking for a purchaser for my I. and B. Terms of sale very reasonable.  Great reduction from original price; shall no doubt be forced to give them away to banish painful recollections.

I also invested in turkeys, geese, and peacocks, and a pair of guinea hens to keep hawks away.

For long weary months the geese seemed the only fowls truly at home on my farm.  They did their level best.  Satisfied that my hens would neither lay nor set, I sent to noted poultry fanciers for “settings” of eggs at three dollars per thirteen, then paid a friendly “hen woman” for assisting in the mysterious evolution of said eggs into various interesting little families old enough to be brought to me.

Many and curious were the casualties befalling these young broods.  Chickens are subject to all the infantile diseases of children and many more of their own, and mine were truly afflicted. Imprimis, most would not hatch; the finest Brahma eggs contained the commonest barn-yard fowls.  Some stuck to the shell, some were drowned in a saucer of milk, some perished because no lard had been rubbed on their heads, others passed away discouraged by too much lard.  Several ate rose bugs with fatal results; others were greedy as to gravel and agonized with distended crops till released by death.  They had more “sand” than was good for them.  They were raised on “Cat Hill,” and five were captured by felines, and when the remnant was brought to me they disappeared day by day in the most puzzling manner until we caught our mischievous pug, “Tiny Tim,” holding down a beautiful young Leghorn with his cruel paw and biting a piece out of her neck.