The common opinion
that the farm-raised hen that has free range is healthier or happier
than her sister in a well-ordered hennery is not based on facts. Freedom
to forage for one's self and pick up a precarious living does not always
mean health, happiness, or comfort. The strenuous life on the farm
cannot compare in comfort with the quiet house and the freedom from
anxiety of the well-tended hen. The vicissitudes of life are terrible
for the uncooped chicken. The occupants of air, earth, and water lie in
wait for it. It is fair game for the hawk and the owl; the fox, the
weasel, the rat, the wood pussy, the cat, and the dog are its sworn
enemies. The horse steps on it, the wheel crushes it; it falls into the
cistern or the swill barrel; it is drenched by showers or stiffened by
frosts, and, as the English say, it has a "rather indifferent time of
it." If it survive the summer, and some chickens do, it will roost and
shiver on the limb of an apple tree. Its nest will be accessible only to
the mink and the rat; and, like Rachel, it will mourn for its children,
which are not.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253