The History of the Hen Fever. A Humorous Record

I have never yet been able to ascertain, authentically, all the exact particulars of the final catastrophe; but, basing an opinion upon the numerous "dispatches" I received from November, 1854, to February, 1855, the number of dead and wounded must have been considerable, if not more. I received scores of letters, during this last period mentioned, of which the annexed is a fair sample:

"G.P. Burnham, Esq.

"Dear Sir: I'm afraid the jig is up! There's a big hole in the bottom somewhere, or I am mistaken. I think the dance is concluded; and if it isn't time to 'blow out the lights' and shut down the gate, just let us know, – will you? Where's Bennett, and Harry Williams, and Dr. Eben, and Childs, and Ad. White, and Brackett, and Johnny Giles, and Uncle Alden, and Buckminster, and Chickering, and Coffin, and Fussell, and Chenery, and Gilman, and Hatch, and Jaques, and Barnum, and Southwick, and Packard, and Balch, and Morton, and Plarsted, and Geo. White, et id omne genus? Where are they all? S-a-y!

"What has become of Platt, and Miner, and Newell, and Hudson, and Heffron, and Taggard, and Hill, and Swett, and M'Clintock, and Dr. Kerr, and Devereux, and Thacher, and Haines, and Hildreth; and Brown, and Smith, and Green, and their allies? Are they dead, or only 'kilt'? Let me know, if you can, I beseech you!

"'O, where, tell me where,' is my bonnie friend John Moore, and mine ancient frère Morse, and my loved chum Howard, and the wily Butters? And where's Pedder – the immaculate Pedder? And Charley Belcher, too, and bragging Cornish, and Billy Everett, and our good neighbors Parkinson, and George, and Sol. Jewett, and President Kimball, and know-nothing King, and the reverend Marsh, and Pendletonian Pendleton of Pendleton Hill, and their satellites? Have all departed, and left no wreck behind? I reckon not!

"Seriously, friend B – , what does all this mean? Has the fever passed by? Can't we offer another single prescription? Has the last man been heard from? Has there been found 'a balm in Gilead' to heal the wounds of the afflicted sufferers? Is the thing finished? Are they all cured? Did you say all? Dunder and blixen! Is anybody hurt? What are we to do? 'Speak, or die!'

"Where are the 'Committee,' and the 'Judges,' and the 'Trustees,' and the 'Managers'? Where is the 'Society' whose name, 'like linked sweetness long drawn out,' I haven't time to write? Where is that balance in the Treasurer's hands,' – and where is that functionary himself? Did he ever exist at all? What has become of the premiums that were awarded at the last show in Boston? And when, in the language of the enthusiastic Mr. Snooks (at the Statehouse in 1850), will that Association begin 'to be forever perpetuated,' – eh?

"I have got on hand three hundred of the Shanghae devils! What can I do with them? There is a neighbor of mine (a police-officer), who has got stuck with a lot of 'Cochin' chickens, which he swears he won't support this winter; and he has at last advertised them as stolen property, in the faint hope, I suppose, that some 'green 'un' will come forward and claim them. You can't get rid of these birds! It is useless to try to sell them; you can't give them away; nobody will take them. You can't starve them, for they are fierce and dangerous when aggravated, and will kick down the strongest store-closet door; and you can't kill them, for they are tough as rhinoceroses, and tenacious of life as cats. Ah! Burnham, I have never forgiven the man who made me a present of my first lot! Do you want what I've got left? Will you take them? How much shall I pay you to receive them? Help me out, if you can.

"I am not aware that I ever committed any offence, that this judgment should be thus visited upon my poor head! I never sold fowls for what they were not; I never cheated anybody, that I know of; I do not remember ever having done any unjust act that should bring down upon me this terrible vengeance. Yet I am now the owner of nearly three hundred of these infernal, cursed, miserable ghosts in 'feathered mail,' which I cannot get rid of! Tell me what I shall do, and answer promptly.

    "Yours, in distress,
    " – ."

I have smiled over this document, so full of feeling and earnestness, so lively and touching in its recollections of the days when we went chicken-ing, long time ago! But I have never been able to reply fully to my ardent friend's numerous inquiries. I don't want those "three hundred Shanghae devils," though. I have now on hand nine of them (only, thank Heaven!) myself; and that is quite enough for one farm, at the present current price of grain.

What has become of all the friends about whom my correspondent so carefully inquires, I don't know. Not five of them are now in the hen-trade, however; and there are not ten of them who got out of the business with a whole skin, from the commencement.

The engine has collapsed its boiler. There was altogether too much steam crowded on, and the managers were not all "up to snuff." The dead and wounded and dying are now scattered throughout New England and New York State chiefly, and their moans can occasionally be heard, though their groans of repentance come too late to help them.

They recklessly invested their twenties, or fifties, or hundreds, and, in some instances, their thousands of dollars, in this hum, without any knowledge of the business, and without any consideration whatever, except the single aim to keep the bubble floating aloft until they could realize anticipated fortunes, on a larger or smaller scale, as the case might be. But the "cars have gone by," and they may now wait for another train. Perhaps it will come!

Poor fellows! Poor, deluded, crazy, reckless dupes! You have had your fun, many of you, and you will now have the opportunity to reflect over the ruins that are piled up around you; while, for the time being, you may well exclaim, with the sulky and flunkey Moor,

"Othello's occupation's gone!"

CHAPTER XLVI.

A MOURNFUL PROCESSION

I was sitting before my comfortable library fire in midwinter, 1854, and had been reflecting upon the mutability of human affairs generally, and the uncertainty of Shanghae-ism more particularly, when I finally dropped into a gentle slumber in my easy-chair, where I dozed away an hour, and dreamed.

My thoughts took a very curious turn. I fancied myself sitting before a large window that opened into a broad public street, in which I suddenly discovered a multitude of people moving actively about; and I thought it was some gala-day in the city, for the throng appeared to be excited and anxious. "The people" were evidently abroad; and the crowds finally packed themselves along the sidewalks, leaving the wide street open and clear; and I could overhear the words "They're coming!" "Here they are!"

I looked out, and beheld an immense gathering of human beings approaching in a line that stretched away as far as the eye could reach, – a dense mass of moving mortality, that soon arrived, and passed the window, beneath me. I was alone in the room, and could ask no questions. I could only see what occurred before me; and I noted down, as they passed by, this motley procession, which moved in the following

Order of March

Escort of Indescribables

Hatless Aid. [ Chief Marshal in Black.] Bootless Aid

Police. Two Ex-Mormons in White Tunics. Police

Calathumpian Band

The "Ins." [ Collector and Postmaster.] The "Outs."

Banner

Motto – "We know of Burns that Russia Salve can't cure."

"Aids to the Revenue." [ Marshal.] Drawbacks on the Revenue

Kaleb Krushing. [ The Man who Fainted in Mexico.] Jorge ah! Poll

"Fanny Fern,"

Flanked by a company of disappointed Publishers,

twenty-four deep, in twelve sections

Banner

Motto. – "She's a brick!"

Aids. [ Marshal.] Aids

President of the "N.E. Mutual Admiration" Hen Society

Fat Marshal. [ The Great Show Man.] Lean Marshal

Band, playing the "Rogue's March."

Marshal. Ghost of Joice Heth. Marshal

Escort in the rear, with charged bayonets

[The good this association had accomplished was borne along by a stout "practical farmer," in a small thimble; the records of its doings were inscribed on a huge roll of paper, 16,000 yards long, carried upon a truck drawn by twelve yoke of "pure" Devon oxen.]

Banner. – Motto: "Ourselves and those who vote for us."

Band, playing "Hope told a flattering tale."

Pall Bearers. [ HIS COFFIN, behind.] Heirs to his estate

Band. – Air: "O, I never will deceive you!"

Full Band

Banner. – Motto: "Don't he feel bad!"

Marshal. [ The "editor," suffering from a severe attack of roup.] Marshal