“Papa” is now the name of our college rooster, his hereditary name, however, having been the “Duke of Wellington,” since he always claimed that he descended from renowned English stock. Be all that as it may, he is a handsome bird of portly proportions and of deep orange and golden plumage. He sports a superb mural crown and has brilliant eyes ever on the watch for the welfare of his numerous family of wives and children. Altogether he is a domestic hero and steps as proudly as ever Hector trod the plains of ancient Troy, while his clarion voice wakes the morning echoes for miles around.

Now, the reason why our big rooster is called Papa springs from quite a novel circumstance all his own and which has been for some time the town talk among the Four Hundred of our poultry social circles. The curious affair was strictly in this wise: Late last fall, or, to be more definite, about the middle of November, one of our little hens, “Biddy the Bantam,” stole her nest, as old housewives would put it, in the adjoining thicket, and in the fullness of time brought off an even dozen as bright, cherry chicks as ever gladdened the heart of a mother partlet.

As soon as the chickens could nimbly walk the provident hen led them to the rear of the college kitchen to be properly fed.

Now it may suffice to enhance the interest of our story and perhaps make several points more clearly understood by the casual reader to say, or rather to delicately intimate, sub rosa, of course, that Biddy the Bantam was not the real mother pure and simple of all the chickens she had so industriously hatched and brought off her fern embowered nest. As it often happens in the best regulated poultry yards, several other and bigger hens had smuggled their own eggs into Biddy’s nest; a fact which would certainly have been a foregone conclusion in a few days from the difference in size of the chickens if for no other reason. I am sorry to say, however, that when the truth leaked out it was an every day scandal from one end of the poultry yard to the other. But Biddy the Bantam, like the brave little mother she was, pondered these things in her heart, lived down the wicked calumny and raised her family despite the alleged illegitimacy of three or four of the longer legged youngsters.

It was determined by the college authorities that everything should be done for the comfort of the rather untimely brood notwithstanding the lateness of the season and the threatened cold weather. To this end mother and chicks were put into a nice warm dry goods box with plenty of soft hay for a bed, and the whole establishment placed under the south veranda of our main building.

Well, with plenty of food the chickens grew, Biddy the Bantam was happy, and all went along nicely till quite lately, when the chickens, having become about a quarter grown, it was discovered that Biddy could not cover them all at the same time, exert herself as best she might. Hence on each frosty morning it was evident that the chickens had suffered a good deal during the night. Their cries could be heard late at night and early in the morning as they crowded each other out into the bitter cold, the stronger ones striving to secure the warmest place under mamma’s soft feather coverlet.

Now a dire emergency had come and something had to be done, and done it was in a most mysterious manner; and herein, also, is contained the gist of our story. The grievous complaint of the chickens came to a sudden discontinuation. Did the little hen mother in her deep affliction appeal to Sir Duke, the big rooster, for advice and succor? The sequel would certainly argue in favor of such a conclusion, for now he comes regularly every evening at early candle light, squeezes his bulky form through the bars of the coop, sits down by the side of Biddy the Bantam and spreads his broad wings over more than half of the chickens. Peace, indeed, has returned and there are no more family jars in that little household.

It is a pleasant pastime to take a lantern and make a social evening call at the coop after Papa and Biddy have put their children to sleep. The most amusing thing of all is to hear the old rooster talk to the chickens. Thus, if anything goes wrong, any naughty crowding or some little foot trodden upon so as to cause an outcry, Papa slowly rises, shakes out his feathers, readjusts his great spreading toes, pokes in with his beak any little protruding head and then settles down again, all the while talking and saying in plain chicken lingo, “There, little dears, now nestle down and go to sleep.”

In conclusion I will say to the readers of Birds and Nature that this little story is no fancy sketch but a true recital of events that took place at Vashon College while I was a member of the faculty of that institution. The chanticleer of every farmyard is a noble bird and a hero in his own sovereign right.

L. Philo Venen.