He carried off the hens under the very noses of March and Banford. Bailey Farm was a little homestead, with ancient wooden barn and low-gabled farm-house, lying just one field removed from the edge of the wood. One evil there was greater than any other. But from all these things she was prevented by the stupid fowls. For she was a creature of odd whims and unsatisfied tendencies. They wanted to read or take a cycle-ride in the evening, or perhaps March wished to paint curvilinear swans on porcelain, with green background, or else make a marvellous fire-screen by processes of elaborate cabinet work. Both Banford and March disbelieved in living for work alone. Now they cheerfully walked around, without so much as glancing at the barn, until ten oвЂ™clock or later. That was late enough, indeed, for there was no peace till they were shut up and asleep. And when the Daylight Saving Bill was passed, the fowls obstinately refused to go to bed as usual, about nine oвЂ™clock in the summer-time. War conditions, again, were very unfavourable to poultry-keeping. So she decided to give them their hot food at night, and let them sleep on it. And she knew quite well that they ought to be busily scratching and foraging about, if they were to come to any good. She expected to see them lean against the pillars of the shed in their languid processes of digestion. When she provided hot food for them in the morning, according to rule, she noticed that it made them heavy and dozy for hours. But there was an almost satirical flicker in MarchвЂ™s big, dark eyes as she looked at her three-toed flock pottering about under her gaze, and the same slight dangerous satire in her voice as she spoke to the favoured Patty, who pecked at MarchвЂ™s boot by way of friendly demonstration.ДЇowls did not flourish at Bailey Farm, in spite of all that March did for them. She would stand balanced on one hip, looking at the fowls pattering about in the obnoxious fine mud of the sloping yard, and calling to her favourite white hen, which came in answer to her name. There was something odd and unexplained about her. Her mouth, too, was almost pinched as if in pain and irony. The wisps of her crisp dark hair blew about her as she stooped, her eyes were big and wide and dark, when she looked up again, strange, startled, shy and sardonic at once. When she was out and about, in her puttees and breeches, her belted coat and her loose cap, she looked almost like some graceful, loose-balanced young man, for her shoulders were straight, and her movements easy and confident, even tinged with a little indifference or irony. But the girls were disgusted at their tendency to strange illnesses, at their exacting way of life, and at their refusal, obstinate refusal to lay eggs. They had a beautiful home, and should have been perfectly content. The fowls were housed in the bigger building, which had served as barn and cow-shed in old days. Here she worked, making coops and doors and other appurtenances. March had set up her carpenterвЂ™s bench at the end of the open shed.

Life was not made merely to be slaved away. In spite of a little chagrin, it was a relief to have no more cattle on hand. Then, just before the other beast was expecting her first calf, the old man died, and the girls, afraid of the coming event, sold her in a panic, and limited their attentions to fowls and ducks.

No matter how March made up the fences, the heifer was out, wild in the woods, or trespassing on the neighbouring pasture, and March and Banford were away, flying after her, with more haste than success. One heifer, unfortunately, refused absolutely to stay in the Bailey Farm closes. They had numbers of chickens, black Leghorns and white Leghorns, Plymouths and Wyandottes also some ducks also two heifers in the fields. They set out quite gallantly with their enterprise. They were neither of them young: that is, they were near thirty. But unfortunately the old man died after he had been at Bailey Farm for a year. They had, moreover, BanfordвЂ™s old grandfather living with them at the start. She had learned carpentry and joinery at the evening classes in Islington. BanfordвЂ™s father, who was a tradesman in Islington, gave his daughter the start, for her healthвЂ™s sake, and because he loved her, and because it did not look as if she would marry. She, however, was the principal investor, for March had little or no money. Unfortunately, things did not turn out well.Д«anford was a small, thin, delicate thing with spectacles. They had taken the farm together, intending to work it all by themselves: that is, they were going to rear chickens, make a living by poultry, and add to this by keeping a cow, and raising one or two young beasts. The two girls were usually known by their surnames, Banford and March.

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