When my firm was running a small chicken-ranche we once reared an unfortunate fowl, who had curvature of the spine, almost from the fracture of his shell. He was a weakling, and his brethren and sistren, after the manner of birds, beasts, and fishes, who “go for” the anæmic and infirm, persecuted him exceedingly, and peeked most of his feathers off. Being a {52} merciful, and withal a thrifty, poultry-farmer, I looked out an old parrot’s cage from the tool-shed, and in this cage installed the weakly cockerel. He was forthwith christened “Poor Richard,” and given little Benjamin’s share of the corn and wine, and cayenne pepper and—other things. And although his head was still slewed round to starboard, he thrived under his liberal nourishment and freedom from the assaults of his relatives. Time flew on. I had been the “Northern Circuit,” in the pursuit of my then profession of reporter of the sport of kings. I returned home late on a Saturday night, and next day we had friends to dinner. So much North Country language, and so much travelling about had quite put our feathered and afflicted pensioner out of my head; and even the fact of our having the favourite broth of His Majesty King James the First for dinner did not suggest anything to my busy brain. But afterwards, when we were alone—she ought not to have done it—my life-partner confided to me that I had helped to eat “Poor Richard”! And I felt like a very cannibal; and mourned the bird as a brother. But to return. In Queen Elizabeth’s reign it was, I used to believe, a capital offence to put hops into beer. But these are the directions for _Brewing of Strong Ale_, issued by one Gervase Markham, an authority on the subject, and a contemporary of Shakespeare; and in these directions “hops” are distinctly mentioned as one of the component parts of the brew. {53}