Page 14 - Poetry-Animals

The Ambitious Pullet

In a tiny country villa lived our Blobbs, but all alone;
Never wife nor chubby children this staid bachelor had known.
Yet—for hearts must cling to something—he had made himself a pet
Of a little snow-white pullet, with her wings just tipped with jet.
Daily feeding and caressing, these had won the pullet’s heart;
Following close her master’s footsteps, seldom they were far apart;
And his love was deeper, stronger, with the passing of each day—
“Wiser far than any woman,” wicked Blobbs was wont to say.
Near by rose a wondrous structure—architects their brains had
racked—
Cross between a Chinese temple and a cruet-stand, in fact.
This the pretty pullet’s dwelling; here she hastened every night;
Perched on high, became a rooster till the dawning of the light.
One sad day a Yankee peddler, glib, persuading, passing by,
Gazed at Blobbs and that poor pullet with a calculating eye.
From his wagon’s deep recesses drew out, smiling wickedly,
“Johnson’s Patent Hen-Persuader;” then to guileless Blobb said he:
“Here’s a marvelous invention! In this box you see a nest;
Hens at once will lay an egg here, lured to do their very best.
Then behold! This sliding bottom lets the egg drop out of view,
And the hen, somewhat bewildered, lays at once egg number two!”
‘Twould be useless to repeat all this wily peddler said;
This suffices. Blobbs, unwary, by his specious tongue misled,
Bought the “Patent Hen-Persuader,” set his snow-white pullet on,
Locked them both within the hen-house ere he went to town that morn.
Business then engrossed him fully, till, with num’rous cares beset,
Who can wonder that the pullet and her nest he should forget?
Nothing all day to remind him; but returning late at night,
Flashed a sudden recollection, and his cheek grew pale with fright.
Rushing madly from the station, straight he sought the hen-house door,
Called his pet in tones endearing. Ah! she’ll never answer more.
Full of gloomiest forebodings, in he dashes; finds the nest
Overflowing with its treasures—yes, she’s done her level best.
Forty-seven eggs! and near them head and tail and wings still lay,
For the poor ambitious pullet thus had laid herself away!

—(Harpers Monthly, 1876)

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