The History of the Hen Fever. A Humorous Record. George P. Burnham

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СКАЧАТЬ bought all the "Grey Chittagongs" that Rugg had left (most of which, when they reached P – , happened to be dark red and brown), and forthwith set up an establishment in opposition to me; for what purpose I never knew. I did not know him from a side of sole-leather, I had never spoken to or of him, and I could not comprehend why this person should render himself, as he did, my future "death's head" in the fowl-trade.

      If he went into the traffic for the purpose of making money out of it, he has found, by this time, I have no doubt, that he would have been, at the very least calculation, five thousand dollars better off had he never thrust himself into a business of which he did not know the first rudiments.

      If he embarked in it to interfere with or to injure me, personally, he has now ascertained, I imagine, that it required a faster horse than he was in the habit of driving to keep in sight of my team.

      If his purpose was the gratification of his own petty spite or ambition only, he has had to pay for the enjoyment of it, – ay, to his dear cost! – and he is welcome to all he ever made out of his contemptible, niggardly huckstering.

      Soon after the first exhibition, it was announced by the publishers in Boston that Dr. Bennett's new Treatise would be immediately issued by them. The doctor had originally applied to the establishment in which I was then a partner, to issue this work; but I recommended him to the others, because our own facilities for getting it out were not so good as I thought were theirs.

      I furnished a considerable amount of the matter for that book, and had already obtained, at my own individual expense, several of the engravings which appear in the work spoken of. After the original cuts were placed in the publishers' hands, they were reduced in size, and injured (for my purposes), as I conceived, when they finally appeared in print.

      The doctor's book on poultry had been announced again and again; but it did not make its appearance in the market, in consequence of his tardiness. Week after week, and month after month, passed by, but still no Dr. Bennett's book could be found. I saw some of the proof-sheets finally, observed the fate of the illustrations of my fowls, and made up my mind what I would do. The book was at last announced positively to appear in three weeks.

      I immediately called at a stereotype foundery, and asked how much time it would require to stereotype a work of one hundred and fifty pages for me. I was told that it would occupy three to four weeks to complete it. "Can't it be done in one week?" I inquired. The proprietor smiled, and said that this was impossible. I replied, "Well, sir, to-day is Tuesday. I have engaged to deliver in New York city, on the morning of a week from next Saturday, three thousand copies of a book which I am about to write. Is there no way that you can help me out?" The gentleman looked at me incredulously.

      I added, "Mr. – , I have been in the newspaper business a good many years, and I have had the message of the President of the United States – a document occupying a dozen columns of solid brevier and minion – set up and put to press within forty-two minutes from the time it reached our office. Anything can be accomplished, now-a-days, if we but will it."

      "But, you say you are about to write it. When will the 'copy' be ready?" said the stereotyper.

      "I have thought of this," I replied, "but a few hours. The title, even, is not yet decided upon. I will give you fifty pages of manuscript to-morrow morning, the next day I will add another fifty, and you shall have the whole in hand by Friday morning."

      He kindly undertook to aid me. I engaged three engravers, who worked day and night upon the drawings and transfers of the fowls for my illustrations; the paper was wet down on Monday and Tuesday; I read the final revised proof of my work on Wednesday night; the book went to press on Thursday; the binders were ready for it as it came up, the covers were put on on Friday morning, and I sent to the New York house (who had bespoken them), by Harnden's Express, on Friday evening, three thousand five hundred copies of the "New England Poultry-Breeder," illustrated with twenty-five correct engravings of my choice, magnificent, superb, unapproachable, pure-bred fowls.

      This book had an extraordinary sale, – far beyond my own calculations, certainly. I got it out for the purpose of "doing justice" to my own stock, and calculated that it would prove a good advertising medium for me, – which it did, by the way. But the demand for the "New England Poultry-Breeder" was immense. And thirteen different editions (varying from three thousand five hundred to one thousand copies each) were issued within as many weeks, and were sold, every copy of them. This is the true history of the "New England Poultry-Breeder."

      By and by Dr. Bennett's book appeared. The market was now glutted with this kind of thing, and this work, though a good one, generally, dragged on the hands of its originators. I doubt if a thousand copies of this book ever found their way into the market, the author being too deeply engrossed with his then thriving trade, to trouble himself about urging the sale of his book, or of thinking about the interests of his publishers.

      CHAPTER V.

      THREATENING INDICATIONS

      Another meeting was now called at the Statehouse, which was even more fully attended than the first, and at which much more serious indications of enthusiasm were apparent.

      Old men, and middle-aged farmers, and florists, and agriculturists, and live-stock breeders, from all parts of this and the neighboring states, congregated together on this eventful occasion, and entered into the debate with an earnestness worthy of so important and "glorious" a cause.

      Some of the speakers had by this time got to be so elated and so ardent that they rehearsed all they knew, and some of them told of a great deal more than themselves or anybody else had ever dreamed of, bearing upon the subject of poultry-raising. But, really, the subject was an exciting one, and the talkers were excusable; they couldn't help it!

      Shades of morus multicaulis victims! Shadows of defunct tulip-growers! Spirits of departed Merino sheep speculators! Ghosts of dead Berkshire pig fanciers! Where were ye all on that eventful night, when six hundred sober, "respectable" representatives of "the people" were assembled within the walls of our time-honored state edifice upon Beacon Hill, in serious and animated conclave, to decide the momentous question that "hens was hens," notwithstanding, nevertheless!

      "Mr. President," exclaimed one of these gentlemen (whose speech was not publicly reported, I think), "Mr. President, the times is propishus. We're a-enterin' on a new ery. The people is a-movin' in this 'ere great, and wonderful, and extraordinary – I may say, Mr. President, this 'ere soul-stirrin' and 'lectrefyin – branch of interestin' rural erconomy." (Applause, during which the speaker advanced a step or two nearer to the presiding officer's desk, wiped his nose fiercely upon a fiery-red bandanna handkerchief, and proceeded.)

      "The world, Mr. President," he continued, "is a-growin' wiser ev'ry day, – I may say ev'ry hour, Mr. President! Ay, sir, ev'ry minute." (Loud applause, amid which one old gentleman in a bob-wig was particularly vociferous.)

      "I say, Mr. President, the people is a-growin' wiser continu'lly; and by that expression, sir, I mean to convey the idee that they are a-gettin' to know more, sir! Who will gainsay this position? Whar's the man – whar's the er – individooal, sir – that'll stan' up 'ere to-night, in this hallowed hall, under the shadder of this doom above our heads, sir, in view of the great American eagle yender, – that 'bird of promise,' sir, – and dispute the assertion that I now make, Mr. President, as an American citizen, without fear and without reproach!" (Deafening shouts of "Nobody! nobody can dispute it!")

      "No, sir! I think not, I wot not, I ventur' not, I cal'k'late not! I say, Mr. President, it is no use for nun of us to contend agin the mighty ingine of progress; 'nless we'd like to get our crowns mashed in for our pains, sir. That's the way it СКАЧАТЬ