The general impressionability of the nervous
system of fowls is amply proved by their
sensitiveness to changes of weather. Though the
Cochins show little sensibility to variations of
the thermometer, and advantageously resist
extreme cold as well as extreme heat, they are
themselves such living barometers, that often
before my aneroid sinks I see my whole family
of fowls preening themselves with an ardour
(animals do nothing by halves) which makes
them neglect their food. Then I know there will
be rain. But if the poultry leave shelter, though
it rains, and no longer cower under a shed, I
reckon confidently that fine weather is at hand.

Some writers on poultry assert fowls to be
nearly destitute of smell and taste. So far from
this being the case, they smell at almost
everything before eating. To cheat them into taking
medicine is very difficult. They distinguish herb
from herb in a wonderful manner. Some kinds
of herbs, though not poisonous (at least to other
birds), they will not touch. Groundsel and
duckweed, so loved by the passerine tribe, are
their hatred. They like grass, daisy-leaves, the
fallen calix of the passion-flower, laurel-berries,
which never hurt them, rose-leaves and dahlia-
leaves, and (less poetically) sow-thistle and
dandelion—of which, both leaf and flower, they are
extremely fond. It is well for an amateur of
fowls to try his poultry with various articles of
food. They will not swallow anything pernicious,
and variety in food is for them (as for all
creatures) good—nay, necessary. Occasional
living food is also essential to their well-being.
While on this subject, I may note that when
cockchafers infest a garden, and are gathered up
by the gardener, they may be thrown to the
fowls in a shallow tub of water, out of which
they fish them with much amusement, and eat
them with gusto. Perhaps a timid young pullet
is at first alarmed at the ugly things, but she will
soon follow the example of the matrons of her
tribe. Worms my Cochins seem to dislike, or to
be afraid of, but the less pure breeds will eat them.
The Cochin hens are as good mousers as cats are.
They will stand, "watching at the mouse's hole,"
and catch the mouse, and, if it be small enough,
send it down their throats head foremost.

Although the foregoing account may not give
a high opinion of the gastronomical taste of my
Cochins, they are singularly delicate about
eating uncooked meat. I have formerly, by
English poultry-book recommendation, had
calves' liver chopped for them raw, but they
would never touch it. Boiled they are very fond
of it, but I administer it sparingly. In some
foreign works on poultry, I have lately read of
alarming symptoms in fowls, caused by feeding
them with raw flesh. Once used to it, they are
said, when deprived of it, to manifest a sort of
carnivorous madness, in which they tear off their
own feathers and those of their companions, and
so bleeding, perish. Does not the refusal of
my Cochins to eat raw flesh show an intuitive
knowledge of the meat-madness which might
follow on Cyclopean meals?

I will not speak of the instincts of fowls,
because I do not believe in the word instinct—
of which, by the way, nobody knows the meaning—
but I can aver they have so much intelligence
that I doubt not there might be learned
fowls (thank God there are not!) as well as
learned pigs. The unmechanical nature of a
fowl's intelligence is amply shown by its power
of adapting itself to circumstances. One of my
young new cuckoo breed of Cochins—a superb
young fellow, with white and grey barrings all
over him, mantled by a shawl of gold: an
Oriental-looking fellow whom I call Bashaw—
is an example how creatures, which we call the
lower, meet emergencies.

He is the only young fellow I ever had who,
in a restricted space, has contrived to keep on
tolerable terms with the old monarch of the
yard—to live with him, in short. The grand
secret of this is, that he never crows in the
day-time, never in the visible presence of his mighty
majesty King Brobdingnag, or, as we call him
for shortness, Brob. Yet since, in order to
satisfy the exigencies of his nature, he must
have his periods of crowing, he takes a good
spell of vocal exercise every morning before the
fowls are let out, when he is safely separated by
a different compartment of the hen-house from
Brob. This device he learnt by experience. In
Bashaw's younger days he occasionally indulged
in a quaver before the king. But he soon found
that this was the one crime of high treason in
cock-court, and, like a wise bird, he cultivated in
himself, as if he had read Carlyle, the golden
silences. Besides this, he took upon himself all
the manners of a courtier, the chief manner
being a constant show of awe and deference.
But the fun of it, is, that this show is only a show,
and that under it he enjoys not only the realities
of a very lucrative position, but plenty of sly
cuts at the king. In the matter of food he
allows precedence to the higher power (woe to
him if he did not!), but, by insinuating his less
bulk behind Brobdingnag, he often gets the best
morsels from between his legs. Should Brob
observe and suddenly run-a-muck at him, he
avails himself of his lighter mould and flings
a somersault right over his majesty's back, thus
getting with all celerity into the shelter of some
friendly bushes. Sometimes if Brob only looks
at him he pretends to make himself scarce, and
shirks, much after the fashion of an Eton boy
when he meets a master out of bounds. These
arts in Bashaw are a specialty of cleverness.
Another young cuckoo, his brother, had not in
him the stuff to make a courtier. He would
crow, he would strut, insupportably in the royal
presence. So the fine slim young fellow was
very nearly killed by the beak and spurs of the
huge one, and after being at odds with death for
some days, was perforce given away to a poultry
fancier in the neighbourhood.

Another striking instance of accommodation
to circumstances, is the change of habits which
my fowls undergo at certain seasons. When I
am away from home, my gardener shuts them
up early in the evening, and lets them out early
in the morning. When I am at home, for reasons