Love Among the Chickens, P. G. Wodehouse [top non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

their living, work-a-day self; but, for my own part, the frame of mind in which I now found myself had a disastrous effect on my novel that was to be. I had designed it as a light comedy effort. Here and there a page or two to steady the reader and show him what I could do in the way of pathos if I cared to try; but in the main a thing of sunshine and laughter. But now great slabs of gloom began to work themselves into the scheme of it. A magnificent despondency became its keynote. It would not do. I felt that I must make a resolute effort to shake off my depression. More than ever the need of conciliating the professor was borne in upon me. Day and night I spurred my brain to think of some suitable means of engineering a reconciliation.

In the meantime I worked hard among the fowls, drove furiously on the links, and swam about the harbour when the affairs of the farm did not require my attention.

Things were not going well on our model chicken farm. Little accidents marred the harmony of life in the fowl-run. On one occasion a hen⁠—not Aunt Elizabeth, I am sorry to say⁠—fell into a pot of tar, and came out an unspeakable object. Ukridge put his spare pair of tennis shoes in the incubator, to dry them, and permanently spoiled the future of half-a-dozen eggs which happened to have got there first. Chickens kept straying into the wrong coops, where they got badly pecked by the residents. Edwin slew a couple of Wyandottes, and was only saved from execution by the tears of Mrs. Ukridge.

In spite of these occurrences, however, his buoyant optimism never deserted Ukridge.

“After all,” he said, “What’s one bird more or less? Yes, I know I made a fuss when that beast of a cat lunched off those two, but that was simply the principle of the thing. I’m not going to pay large sums for chickens purely in order that a cat which I’ve never liked can lunch well. Still, we’ve plenty left, and the eggs are coming in better now, though we’ve still a deal of leeway to make up yet in that line. I got a letter from Whiteley’s this morning asking when my first consignment was going to arrive. You know, these people make a mistake in hurrying a man. It annoys him. It irritates him. When we really get going, Garny, my boy, I shall drop Whiteley’s. I shall cut them out of my list and send my eggs to their trade rivals. They shall have a sharp lesson. It’s a little hard. Here am I, worked to death looking after things down here, and these men have the impertinence to bother me about their wretched business. Come in and have a drink, laddie, and let’s talk it over.”

It was on the morning after this that I heard him calling me in a voice in which I detected agitation. I was strolling about the paddock, as was my habit after breakfast, thinking about Phyllis and trying to get my novel into shape. I had just framed a more than usually murky scene for use in the earlier part of the book, when Ukridge shouted to me from the fowl-run.

“Garny, come here. I want you to see the most astounding thing.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Blest if I know. Look at those chickens. They’ve been doing that for the last half-hour.”

I inspected the chickens. There was certainly something the matter with them. They were yawning⁠—broadly, as if we bored them. They stood about singly and in groups, opening and shutting their beaks. It was an uncanny spectacle.

“What’s the matter with them?”

“Can a chicken get a fit of the blues?” I asked. “Because if so, that’s what they’ve got. I never saw a more bored-looking lot of birds.”

“Oh, do look at that poor little brown one by the coop,” said Mrs. Ukridge sympathetically; “I’m sure it’s not well. See, it’s lying down. What can be the matter with it?”

“I tell you what we’ll do,” said Ukridge. “We’ll ask Beale. He once lived with an aunt who kept fowls. He’ll know all about it. Beale!”

No answer.

“Beale!!”

A sturdy form in shirtsleeves appeared through the bushes, carrying a boot. We seemed to have interrupted him in the act of cleaning it.

“Beale, you know all about fowls. What’s the matter with these chickens?”

The Hired Retainer examined the blasé birds with a wooden expression on his face.

“Well?” said Ukridge.

“The ’ole thing ’ere,” said the Hired Retainer, “is these ’ere fowls have been and got the roop.”

I had never heard of the disease before, but it sounded bad.

“Is that what makes them yawn like that?” said Mrs. Ukridge.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Poor things!”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And have they all got it?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“What ought we to do?” asked Ukridge.

“Well, my aunt, sir, when ’er fowls ’ad the roop, she gave them snuff.

“Give them snuff, she did,” he repeated, with relish, “every morning.”

“Snuff!” said Mrs. Ukridge.

“Yes, ma’am. She give ’em snuff till their eyes bubbled.”

Mrs. Ukridge uttered a faint squeak at this vivid piece of word-painting.

“And did it cure them?” asked Ukridge.

“No, sir,” responded the expert soothingly.

“Oh, go away, Beale, and clean your beastly boots,” said Ukridge. “You’re no use. Wait a minute. Who would know about this infernal roop thing? One of those farmer chaps would, I suppose. Beale, go off to the nearest farmer, and give him my compliments, and ask him what he does when his fowls get the roop.”

“Yes, sir.”

“No, I’ll go, Ukridge,” I said. “I want some exercise.”

I whistled to Bob, who was investigating a mole-heap in the paddock, and set off in the direction of the village of Up Lyme to consult Farmer Leigh on the matter. He had sold us some fowls shortly after our arrival, so might be expected to feel a kindly interest in their ailing families.

The path to Up Lyme lies across deep-grassed meadows. At intervals it passes over a stream by means of a footbridge. The stream