A Perennial Fever

"A Perennial Fever" by Charles Battell Loomis is a whimsical and insightful exploration of the human spirit and the pursuit of passion. Set against the backdrop of nature's beauty, the narrative weaves together humor and introspection as it delves into the complexities of love, ambition, and the quest for meaning in life. Through vivid imagery and engaging prose, Loomis captures the essence of a restless heart yearning for fulfillment, making this work a delightful read for those who appreciate a blend of light-hearted storytelling and deeper reflections.

• Short story

								
The world hears much of the dangers of typhoid and yellow and scarlet
fever, and the skill of physicians is ever employed to reduce those
dangers to a minimum; but in every country, at all seasons of the
year, there is a fever that numbers its victims by the thousand, and
yet no doctor has ever prescribed for it, nor is there any drug in
the pharmacopœia that will alleviate it.

The malady to which I refer is hen fever.

If a city woman intends marrying a city man, and then moving out a
little way into the country, as she values her peace of mind, let her
make sure that he is immune. Unless, indeed, both are prepared to
come down with it at once. For it is unlike all other fevers in that
a man and his wife may have it together and be happy; but if he or
she have it alone, then woe be to that house.

The germs of hen fever are carried in a chance conversation, in a
picture of gallinaceous activity, in the perusal of a poultry-book.
A man hears or looks or reads, and the mischief is done. The subtle
poison is in his blood, although he knows it not.

Hen fever takes various forms. With some it is manifested in a desire
to keep a few blooded fowls and breed for points; with another, to
keep a few birds for the sake of fresh eggs and broilers: but in
whatsoever form it come, it will cause the upheaval of its victim’s
most cherished plans and habits.

He may have been an ardent admirer of Shakspere, and in the evenings
it has been his wont to read aloud to his wife while she knitted; but
now, little recking what she does, he reads to himself “Farm Poultry”
or “The Care of Hens,” or--and this is the second stage of the
disease--he reads aloud to her that hens cannot thrive without plenty
of gravel, that cracked wheat is better than whole corn for growing
pullets, that the best way to cure a hen of eating her own eggs is to
fill one with mustard, etc.

Time was when he had an opinion on politics, on finance, on
literature, on the thousand and one things that make for
conversation, and his neighbors dropped in to hear him talk
engagingly of what he had read or seen; but now, when they come, he
tells them that his brown Leghorn hen laid twenty eggs in twenty-five
days, while his buff Cochin laid only eight in the same time; that
his white Plymouth Rock is crop-bound, and his Wyandotte rooster has
the pip.

Lucky indeed is his wife if he stick to the good old way of hatching
chickens by hens instead of kerosene-oil; for if he get an incubator
she had better get a divorce. How many homes have been wrecked by
patent incubators will never be known.

But even if the fevered one stick to the natural method of hatching,
there will be many times when his wife will wonder why she left a
comfortable and sociable home to spend her evenings alone; for he
will be in the hen-house, setting hens, or washing soiled eggs, or
divesting nestlings of the reluctant shell, or dusting his whole
flock with the snuff-like insecticide, or kerosening their roosts.

With some the fever never abates; with some it is intermittent; some
have it hardest in the spring of the year, when hens are laying their
prettiest, and profits may be figured in money as well as on paper.
But whether it be light or heavy, hen fever will run its course
without let or hindrance; and, as I have hinted, happy is the wife
who comes down with it simultaneously with her husband; for, though
their neighbors will shun them as they would a deadly pestilence,
yet they will be company for each other, and will prate ceaselessly,
yet cheerily, upon the best foods for laying hens, the best exposure
for coops, how many hens can live in one house with best results,
when a chicken should be weaned of bread, what breed of hens is least
idiotic, and kindred topics.

As for me, I am free to come and go among hens; to look on their
markings with unmoved eye; to view their output with normal pulse;
to hear “the cock’s shrill clarion” without pricking up my ears; to
read of the latest thing in incubators without turning a hair: for I
have survived the fever; I am an immune.
								Rate this book:0.0 / 0 votes