She is eminently practical--theoretically
speaking.
She insisted. "With eggs at eightpence it's a sin and a shame not to
keep hens in war-time."
I urged that the food would cost a good many eightpences--in war-time.
Her reply was "Pshaw!" (She really does say "Pshaw"--and means it.)
"Pshaw! they will live on kitchen scraps."
We consulted Nibletts. He has a local reputation as a chicken expert,
mainly, I believe, because he's a butcher. He recommended a breed
called Wild Oats (by which he meant, I discovered, Wyandottes).
"You take my tip, Sir," he said, "and buy Wild Oats. If you'll excuse
the word--" (Nibletts is always apologising for some term he is about
to use, which promises to be inexpressibly shocking to polite ears,
and never is)--"they're clinkers."
We ordered a round dozen. We also bought a hen-house fitted with all
modern conveniences. The total outlay represented a prince's ransom;
but, as I pointed out to my aunt, we had a run for our money.
The hens, when they arrived, were not strictly "as per" advertisement.
We bought them as laying pullets, and they didn't lay for quite a
time--so far as we knew.
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