CHAPTER IX.
THE PASSING OF THE PEACOCKS.
I would rather look at a peacock than eat him.

The feathers of an angel and the voice of a devil.
The story of this farm would not be complete without a brief rehearsal of my experiences, exciting, varied, and tragic, resulting from the purchase of a magnificent pair of peacocks.
My honest intention on leasing my forty-dollars-a-year paradise was simply to occupy the quaint old house for a season or two as a relief from the usual summer wanderings.

I would plant nothing but a few hardy flowers of the old-fashioned kind--an economical and prolonged picnic.
In this way I could easily save in three years sufficient funds to make a grand tour du monde.
That was my plan! For some weeks I carried out this resolution, until an event occurred, which changed the entire current of thought, and transformed a quiet, rural retreat into a scene of frantic activity and gigantic undertaking.
In the early summer I attended a poultry show at Rooster, Mass., and, in a moment of impulsive enthusiasm, was so foolish as to pause and admire and long for a prize peacock, until I was fairly and hopelessly hypnotized by its brilliant plumage.
I reasoned: Anybody can keep hens, "me and Crankin" can raise ducks, geese thrive naturally with me, but a peacock is a rare and glorious possession.

The proud scenes he is associated with in mythology, history, and art rushed through my mind with whirlwind rapidity as I stood debating the question.

The favorite bird of Juno--she called the metallic spots on its tail the eyes of Argus--imported by Solomon to Palestine, essentially regal.