LITMIR.BIZ

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gradually. One year after the receipt of my Cochins, I got my own price for them, ask what I might. I sold a good many pairs at one hundred dollars the couple; and, oftentimes, I received this sum for a trio of them.

      Things begun to look up with me. I had got a very handsome-looking stock on hand, at last; and when my numerous customers came to see me, they were surprised (and so was I) to meet with such "noble" samples of domestic fowls. "Magnificent!" "Astonishing!" cried everybody.

      A splendid open carriage halted before my door, one day, and there alighted from it a fine, portly-looking man, whom I had never seen before, and whose name I did not then learn; who, leaving an elegantly-dressed lady behind in the vehicle, called for me.

      I saw and recognized the carriage, however, as one of Niles'; and I was satisfied that it came from the Tremont House. As soon as the gentleman spoke, I was also satisfied, from his manner of speech, that he was a Southerner. He was polite and frank, apparently. I invited him in, and he went to look at my fowls; that being the object, he said, of his visit.

      He examined them all, and said, quietly:

      "I'd like to get half a dozen of these, if they didn't come too high; but I understand you fanciers have got the price up. I used to buy these chickens for a dollar apiece. Now, they say, you're asking five dollars each for them."

      I showed him my stock, – the "pure-bred" ones, – and informed him at once that I had not sold any of my chickens, latterly, at less than forty dollars a pair.

      He was astounded. He didn't want any – much: that is, he wasn't particular. He could buy them for five dollars; shouldn't pay that, nohow; wanted them for his boy; would come again, and see about it, &c. &c.

      A five-year-old stag mounted the low fence at this moment, and sent forth an electrifying crow, such as would (at that period) have taken a novice "right out of his boots;" and a beautiful eight-pound pullet showed herself beside him at the same time. The stranger turned round, and said:

      "There! What is your price for such a pair as that, for instance?"

      "Not for sale, sir."

      "But you will sell them, I s'pose?"

      "No, sir. I have younger ones to dispose of; but that pair are my models. I can't sell them."

      The gentleman's eye was exactly filled with this pair of chickens.

      "What will you take for those two fowls?"

      "One hundred dollars, sir," I replied.

      "I guess you will – when you can get it," he added. – "Name your lowest price, now, for those two. I want good ones, if any."

      "I prefer to keep them, rather than to part with them at any price," I insisted. "If, however, a gentleman like yourself, who evidently knows what good fowls are, desires to procure the choicest specimens in the country, why, I confess to you that those are the persons into whose hands I prefer that my best stock should fall. But I will show you some at a lower figure," I continued, driving this pair from the fence.

      "Don't you! Don't drive 'em away!" said the gentleman; – "let's see. That's the cock?"

      "Yes, sir."

      "And this is the hen?"

      "Yes."

      "One hundred dollars! You don't mean this, of course," he persisted.

      "No, I mean that I would rather keep them, sir."

      "Well – I'll —take them," said the stranger. "It's cruel. But, I'll take them;" and he paid me five twenty-dollar gold pieces down on the spot, for two ten-months-old chickens, from my "splendid" Royal Cochin-China fowls.

      He had a tender spot somewhere, that I had hit, during the conversation, I presume. He took the two chickens into his carriage, and I have never seen or heard from him from that day to this. I trust, however, if "these few lines" should ever meet his eye, that his poultry turned out well, and that he himself is in good health and spirits!

      I called this gallant young cock "Frank Pierce," in honor of my valiant friend now of the White House, at Washington. It will be seen that I thus sold Frank for fifty dollars; a sum which the majority of the people of this country have since most emphatically determined was a good deal more than he ever was worth!

      CHAPTER VIII.

      THE FEVER WORKING

      About this time an ex-member of Congress, formerly from Pennsylvania, was invited to deliver the address before one of the county agricultural societies of that state (where the fever had now begun to spread with alarming rapidity), who, in the course of his speech on that occasion, delivered himself of the following pointed and forcible remark.

      Speaking of poultry and the rare qualities of certain domestic fowls, he said, "Ladies and gentlemen, next to a beautiful woman, and an honest farmer, I deem a Shanghae cock the noblest work of God!"

      Now, this expression might be looked upon, by some persons, as savoring of demagogism, or, at the least, as an approach to "running this thing into the ground" (or into the air); but the honorable gentleman no doubt felt just what he said. I have seen many sensible men who felt worse than this – a good deal – on this self-same subject; and who expressed themselves much more warmly in regard to the characteristics and beauties of domestic poultry; but, to be sure, it was after they had "gone through the mill," and had come out at the small end of the funnel.

      In New England, especially, prior to the second show of poultry in Boston, the fever had got well up to "concert pitch;" and in New York State "the people" were getting to be very comfortably interested in the subject – where my stock, by this time, had come to be pretty extensively known.

      The expenses attendant upon this part of the business, to wit, the process of furnishing the requisite amount of information for "the people" (on a subject of such manifestly great importance), the quantum sufficit in the way of drawings, pictures, advertisements, puffings, etc., through the medium of the press, can be imagined, not described.

      The cost of the drawings and engravings which I had executed for the press, from time to time, during the years 1850, '51, '52, and '53, exceeded over eight hundred dollars; but this, with the descriptions of my "rare" stock (which I usually furnished the papers, accompanying the cuts), was my chosen mode of advertising. And I take this method publicly to acknowledge my indebtedness to the press for the kindness with which I was almost uniformly treated, while I was thus seriously affected by the epidemic which destroyed so many older and graver men than myself; though few who survived the attack "suffered" more seriously than I did, during the course of the fever. For instance, the large picture of the fowls which I had the pleasure of sending to Her Majesty Queen Victoria (in 1852), and which appeared in Gleason's Pictorial, the New York Spirit of the Times, New England Cultivator, &c., cost me, for the original drawing, engraving, electrotyping, and duplicating, eighty-three dollars.

      All these expenses were cheerfully paid, however, because I found my reward in the consciousness that I performed the duty I owed to my fellow-men, by thus aiding (in my humble way) in disseminating the information which "the people" were at that time so ravenously in search of, namely, as to the person of whom they could obtain (without regard to price) the best fowls in the country.

      This was what "the people" wanted; and thus the malady extended far and wide, and when the fall of 1850 arrived, buyers had got to be as plenty as blackberries in August, whilst sellers "of reputation" were, like the visits of angels, few and far between. I was, by this time, considered "one of 'em." I strove, however, to carry my honors with Christian meekness and forbearance, and with that becoming consideration for the wants and the wishes of my fellow-men that rendered myself and my "purely-bred stock" so universally popular.

      Ah! when I look back on the past, – when I reflect upon the noble generosity and disinterestedness that characterized all my transactions at that flush period, – when I think of what I did for "the cause," and how liberally I was rewarded for my candor, my honesty of purpose, and my disingenuousness, –

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