works on keeping poultry,* few and far between
are the hints for observing poultry, for going to
them, studying their ways, and being wise about
them. Have cocks and hens their Huber, as
bees have? As to my own particular studies
on the subject, they by no means claim to be
exhaustive. I only throw together a few
remarks, the direct result of observation, which
have been chiefly made on Cochins, my favourite
breed—pro causâ, they lay, with few intervals,
"all the year round" (not Numbers but eggs);—
from the shortness of their wings, a low fence
keeps them out of a garden; their flesh is of a
gamey flavour; and, as pets, they are of a good,
generous, and (so to speak) big nature. Then
it is pleasant to study from large models. How
noble is my Cochin cock! He is not only taller,
but infinitely more human, than General Tom
Thumb. He is perfect in his kind, which dwarfs
are not. Viewed as he stands, my Brobdingnag
(all my fowls have names) in his vast natural
trousers, simulates a schoolboy, of brave aspect,
somewhat perhaps grown out of his leggings,
but, in all things, bearing full witness to the
fidelity of John Leech's representation of
Cochins in Punch's Almanack. His beak, because
of the grand curve of his neck, is at right angles
with his body; his legs are straight as those of
a soldier upon drill; his eye responds to some
supposed order of "Attention." His comb
looks warlike. He has but little tail. Oh,
grand distinction, which, according to Lord
Monboddo's theory, approximates the brute to
man. If I mistake not, Cochins are more
intelligent than other fowls.

* Ornamental and Domestic Poultry, by the Rev.
E. S. Dixon, may be especially recommended.

I divide my observations upon them into
three sections of their being—the sensational,
the intelligential, and the emotional.

Let me correct the popular error, that the
senses of poultry are of a low order.

Their sight detects a bird of prey hovering at
a vast distance: their hearing is acute to detect
any sound which threatens them with danger.
Also the variety of their own notes attests a
good endowment of auditory power, and they
have a copious language amongst themselves.
The various calls of Brobdingnag to his hens,
when he has found, or pretends he has found
(for if he wishes his hens to be near him he
does pretend to have found) a choice morsel,
seem almost to indicate the kind of food he has
discovered. Then of what singular expressions
of moods of temper he is capable! The snort
of anger, the groan of indignation, the imperative
"Hush!" to the hens when they gabble too
much! For, be it observed, your true monarch
of Cochin loves, as did the great Wallenstein,
that nobody should make a noise but himself.

To speak of a musical endowment in poultry
seems ridiculous; yet poetry has turned the
cock's crow into a song, a trumpet, a clarion;
and the French always use "chanter" as their
version of "to crow." This is certain: the
voices of cocks vary as much, from tuneful to
discordant, as the voices of good or bad singers.
There are cocks who have tenor voices, others
who have the basso profundo. I called one of
my Cochins, Lablache, from his deep yet cheery
note. Some like to lengthen out the last note
in a sostenuto manner, which has its art. One
of my feathered friends evidently imitates and
vies with the railway whistle, always beginning
to crow when the whistle provokes it. On the
other hand, others can never achieve a tuneful
crow. That this is a defect in themselves, not
in the race, is proved by the frequent falsity of
the old proverb, "As the old cock crows, so
crows the young one;" for I have known many
of these young bloods, with an admirable teacher
in their sire, fail to do justice to his lessons.
I had a Brahma (by the way, the Brahmas have
generally much stronger voices than the Cochins)
which always fell a semitone on the last note,
and so ended in a minor key, of a dismal nature.
There seem to be also fashions in crowing, set
by some pert young springald, and becoming
epidemic. All my young birds one day altered
their song—not for the better—and I traced the
change to an infamous little dunghill cock in the
neighbourhood, who crowed short. He had
evidently set a bad fashion—always easier to
adopt than a good fashion. It is very curious
to observe an old bird teaching a young one to
crow. He not only makes the cockerel repeat
his lesson separately, but sometimes like a
human musical professor teaching a pupil, in duo
with himself. While on the subject of the
vocal endowments of fowls, I may mention that
what is popularly called the cackling of a hen is
partly achieved by her husband, who finishes
the rejoicing strain, and comes up to time so
neatly, that few persons, I imagine, are aware
that the cackle is not the work of one performer.
Moreover, the cackle of the hen does not always
mean she has laid an egg. It sometimes means
she is alarmed. A sudden fright will set the whole
yard cackling. Once a sponge of mine, blown by
the wind from a window-ledge, excited fits of
endless cackling, as if all the hens had laid at once.

As to the sense of feeling in fowls, let us hope
that at least they are not susceptible of acute
suffering. I have seen a beheaded fowl run
round a garden, curiously avoiding obstacles in
the way. This argues a diffusion in certain of
the senses of fowls, but I trust not in their sense
of pain. The chief thing I have remarked, as to
their general susceptibility to touch, is their
exceeding dislike to be handled. Their opinions
on the subject, simply reverse those of the dog.
To be stroked and fondled is not their trade.
Yet I have a white bantam, the dwarfest of his
species—not so large as many a pigeon—which,
having been brought up very much by hand,
even courts a caress. He will stand still at the
feet of those he likes, in order to be lifted, and
thanks the lifter when he has attained his elevation
by a rejoicing crow. In winter he will
come to the kitchen window and tap to be
admitted, holding up, at the same time, a shivering
foot to excite commiseration. He also knows his
name of Paul, and runs forward at the sound of it.