THE CLUCKING HEN
THE old gray hen has thirteen chicks, and round the yard she claws and picks, and toils the whole day long; I lean upon the garden fence, and watch that hen of little sense, whose intellect is wrong. She is the most important hen that ever in the haunts of men a waste of effort made; she thinks if she should cease her toil the whole blamed universe would spoil, its institutions fade. Yet vain and trifling is her task; she might as profitably bask and loaf throughout the year; one incubator from the store would bring forth better chicks and more than fifty hens could rear. She ought to rest her scratching legs, get down to tacks and lay some eggs, which bring the valued bucks; but, in her vain perverted way, she says, “I’m derned if I will lay,” and hands out foolish clucks. And many men are just the same; they play some idle, trifling game, and think they’re sawing wood; they hate the work that’s in demand, the jobs that count they cannot stand, and all their toil’s no good.