class="c10">Height of the Fever

104 XL. Doing the Genteel Thing 273 XVII. Running it into the Ground 111 XLI. The Fate of the "Model" Shanghaes 279 XVIII. One of the Final Kicks 119 XLII. An Emphatic Clincher 288 XIX. The Fourth Fowl Show in Boston 124 XLIII. "Stand from Under" 294 XX. Present to Queen Victoria 129 XLIV. Bursting of the Bubble 302 XXI. Experiments of Amateurs 137 XLV. The Dead and Wounded 307 XXII. True History of "Fanny Fern" 147 XLVI. A Mournful Procession 312 XXIII. Convalescence 155 XLVII. My Shanghae Dinner 318   List of Books Transcriber's Note

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THE
HISTORY OF
THE HEN FEVER.

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CHAPTER I.
PREMONITORY SYMPTOMS OF THE DISEASE.

I was sitting, one afternoon, in the summer of 1849, in my little parlor, at Roxbury, conversing with a friend, leisurely, when he suddenly rose, and passing to the rear window of the room, remarked to me, with considerable enthusiasm,

"What a splendid lot of fowls you have, B——! Upon my word, those are very fine indeed,—do you know it?"

I had then been breeding poultry (for my own amusement) many years; and the specimens I chanced at that time to possess were rather even in color, and of good size; but were only such as any one might have had—bred from the common stock of the country—who had taken the same pains that I did with mine.

There were perhaps a dozen birds, at the time, in the rear yard, and my friend (then, but who subsequently passed to a competitor, and eventually turned into a sharp but harmless enemy) was greatly delighted with them, as I saw from his enthusiastic conversation, and his laudation of their merits.

I am not very fast, perhaps, to appreciate the drift of a man's motives in casual conversation,—and then, again, it may be that I am "not so slow" to comprehend certain matters as I might be! At all events, I have sometimes flattered myself that, on occasions like this, I can "see as far into a millstone as can he who picks it;" and so I listened to my friend, heard all he had to say, and made up my mind accordingly, before he left me.

"I tell you, B——, those are handsome chickens," he insisted. "I've got a fine lot, myself. You keep but one variety, I notice. I've got 'em all."

"All what?" I inquired.

"O, all kinds—all kinds. The Chinese, and the Malays, and the Gypsies, and the Chittaprats, and the Wang Hongs, and the Yankee Games, and Bengallers, and Cropple-crowns, and Creepers, and Top-knots, and Gold Pheasants, and Buff Dorkings, and English Games, and Black Spanish and Bantams,—and I've several new breeds too, I have made myself, by crossing and mixing, in the last year, which beat the world for beauty and size, and excellence of quality."

"Indeed!" I exclaimed. "So you have made several new breeds during one year's crossing, eh? That is remarkable, doctor, certainly. I have never been able yet to accomplish so extraordinary a feat, myself," I added.

"Well, I have," said the doctor,—and probably, as he was a practising physician of several years' experience, he knew how this reversion of nature's law could be accomplished. I didn't.

"Yes," he continued; "I have made a breed I call the 'Plymouth Rocks,'—superb