The Abandoned Farmers: His Humorous Account of a Retreat from the City to the Farm — John Shaqi
The Abandoned Farmers: His Humorous Account of a Retreat from the City to the FarmCobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
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The Abandoned Farmers: His Humorous Account of a Retreat from the City to the Farm
Cobb, Irvin S. (Irvin Shrewsbury)
Farms -- Recreational use -- United States -- Fiction; Humorous stories
We heard their tales of rising at daybreak and going forth to pick from
the vines the platter of breakfast berries, still beaded with the dew.
They got up at daybreak, they said, especially on account of the berry
picking and the beauties of the sunrise. Having formerly been city
dwellers, they had sometimes stayed up for a sunrise; but never until
now had they got up for one. The novelty appealed to them tremendously
and they never tired of talking of it.
In the country--so they told us--you never needed an alarm clock to
rouse you at dawn. Subsequently, by personal experience, I found this
to be true. You never need an alarm clock--if you keep chickens. You may
not go to bed with the chickens, but you get up with them, unless you
are a remarkably sound sleeper. When it comes to rousing the owner, from
slumber before the sun shows, the big red rooster and the little brown
hen are more dependable than any alarm clock ever assembled. You might
forget to wind the alarm clock. The big red rooster winds himself. You
might forget to set the alarm clock. The little brown hen does her own
setting; and even in cases where she doesn't, she likes to wake up about
four-forty-five and converse about her intentions in the matter in a
shrill and penetrating tone of voice.
It had been so long since I had lived in the country I had forgotten
about the early-rising habits of barnyard fowl. I am an expert on the
subject now. Only this morning there was a rooster suffering from hay
fever or a touch of catarrh, or something that made him quite hoarse;
and he strolled up from the chicken house to a point directly beneath
my bedroom window, just as the first pink streaks of the new day were
painting the eastern skies, and spent fully half an hour there clearing
his throat.
But I am getting ahead of my story. More and more we found the lure of
the country was enmeshing our fancies. After each trip to the country
we went back to town to find that, in our absence, the flat had somehow
grown more stuffy and more crowded; that the streets had become more
noisy and more congested. And the outcome of it with us was as the
outcome has been with so many hundreds and thousands and hundreds of
thousands of others. We voted to go to the country to live.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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