She made up for this wifely self-abnegation by frequenting the hen houses.

She would watch patiently by the side of a hen on her nest, and as soon as an egg was deposited, would remove it for her luncheon.
She liked raw eggs, and six were her usual limit.
There is a deal of something closely akin to human nature in barn-yard fowls.

It was irresistibly ludicrous to see the peacock strutting about in the sunshine, his tail expanded in fullest glory, making a curious rattle of triumph as he paraded, while my large white Holland turkey gobbler, who had been molting severely and was almost denuded as to tail feathers, would attempt to emulate his display, and would follow him closely, his wattles swelling and reddening with fancied success, making all this fuss about what had been a fine array, but now was reduced to five scrubby, ragged, very dirty remnants of feathers.

He fancied himself equally fine, and was therefore equally happy.
Next came the molting period.
Pliny said long ago of the peacock: "When he hath lost his taile, he hath no delight to come abroad," but I knew nothing of this peculiarity, supposing that a peacock's tail, once grown, was a permanent ornament.
On the contrary, if a peacock should live one hundred and twenty years (and his longevity is something phenomenal) he would have one hundred and seventeen new and interesting tails--enough to start a circulating library.

Yes, Beauty's pride and mine had a sad fall as one by one the long plumes were dropped in road and field and garden.