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Updated: May 26, 2025
Suddenly he remembered the chicken coop. "It's late. Edith won't be coming in." So he skulked around behind the house and the stable, and up the gravel path to the henhouse. Lifting the rusty latch, he stepped quietly into the dusky, feathery shelter. "I can think the damned business out, here," he thought.
Why so talkative in public, when each of my neighbors can pin me to my seat by arguments I cannot refute? Why pretend that life is so simple a game, when we know how subtle and elusive the Proteus is? Why think to shut up all things in your narrow coop, when we know there are not one or two only, but ten, twenty, a thousand things, and unlike? Why fancy that you have all the truth in your keeping?
"I don't know what it was reminded the boy of that remaining Easter egg unless it was the sight of the unemployed pullet in her coop, which he visited the first thing; and I don't know how he managed to wheedle his mother out of it; but the first night after I came home from business it was rather late and the children had gone to bed she told me that ridiculous boy, as she called him in self-exculpation, had actually put the egg under his pullet, and all the children were wild to see what it would hatch.
What else then does he do, than abolish auspices out of the state, who, by creating plebeian consuls, takes them away from the patricians who alone can hold them? They may now mock at religion. For what else is it, if the chickens do not feed? if they come out too slowly from the coop? if a bird chaunt an unfavourable note?
It was a charming scene. But even a gay toilet cannot give delight for ever. As the last ribbon was settled, they heard the young men coming in from the barn, and the next half hour, while the beaux were at supper, threatened to be a heavy one with the girls. "Oh, what shall we do, huddled up here like chickens in a coop?" cried one. Salina, tell us a story; come, that's a good creature."
A man might, if he were of a fearful heart, stagger in this attempt; but I shut my eyes, and take up one of the little volumes. It proves to be the edition of 1883. Again I shut my eyes while I open the book at random. It is the week beginning with Sunday, the 9th of September. Thomp. Coop. &c. 10-Mile Pines. Cleo. Duff. Selec. The fore part of the day was altogether devoid of interest or event.
Some might have escaped, like himself and his three companions, by reaching the shore on cask, coop, or spar. If so, they had not fallen into the hands of the wreckers; or if they had, they were not in the camp, unless, indeed, they might be inside some of the tents. This was not likely.
"No, perhaps they hain't yet, but I'm expectin' to see 'em every day, 'tennyrate paint that coop a bright red and yaller and it will attract a crowd. "And then there is that travelin' rat trap of brother Henzy's, you know his grandmother wuz an Allen, I shall mayhap let him appear.
One evening when I came out from Boston, I was met by a doleful deputation at the front gate, with the news that when the coop was visited that morning after breakfast they visited the coop every morning before they went to school the pullet was found perched on a cross-bar in a high state of nerves, and the shell of the Easter egg broken and entirely eaten out.
He knew that a Hall Master was an "H.M."; that he and one hundred and seventy-one other youths were, in common parlance, "Brims"; that a "Silk Sock" was a student of Claflin School, Brimfield's athletic rival; that Wendell Hall was "Wen"; Torrence, "T"; Hensey, "Hen" or "The Coop," and Billings, "Bill."
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