A Cheep Surprise

As we waved goodbye to Doug Bush, who'd dropped in for a visit, Phil heard an unexpected sound. Tiny cheeps from our parking area at the top of the driveway. He looked around and, unbelievably, saw a couple little chicks.

They look just like Strangey the Rooster looked when he first arrived, and one of our Rhode Island Red hens was hovering, broody, over those babies.

We saw two chicks at first, then three. What should we do with this unexpected blessing? Hens today, born in hatcheries after generations of artificial insemination, rarely go broody anymore. I have entire books on raising poultry that don't mention broody hens.

Well, praise the Lord for Carla Emery. HerEncyclopedia of Country Living covers everything imaginable. Here's what I learned.

Hens that go broody lay eggs for ten to 14 days in a secluded spot. Then they sit on their eggs for 21 days, getting up only once a day to drink water and eat some food. On the 21st day, the eggs hatch.

Incredibly, today was the 21st day! Those babies Phil spotted were only hours old. As we went up to see the chicks again, we saw a wet head peek out from under the mother: another baby, so newly hatched!

I could hardly tear myself away. I wanted to watch these little babes, with their yellow-and-black or white-and-black markings. I wanted to hold the balls of fluff, but I resisted.

The book said that, once the babies are hatched, move the mother and babes into a prepared area, about 4'x4', with food and water. We made a shelter out of hay bales and chicken wire, but as we grabbed two tiny chicks (so soft! so tiny!), Phil went to grab the hen, too, and she pecked viciously. Understandable. But as Phil distracted her with a twig, he lifted her a bit and saw more eggs, unhatched. We'll try again tomorrow.

The mother hen hovers over her babies. They can run under her wings, which she holds, a bit outstretched, over all eggs and chicks. She tears out some of her breast feathers in order to have better skin to egg contact, to warm the chicks better. And, she protects her babies quite well from intruders.

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. . . . He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust.

For now, we bask in the sight of the nine balls of fluff. And I enjoy anew one of my favorite poems. (It's worth it to really read it.)


"God's Grandeur," by Gerard Manley Hopkins

The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
And wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.

And for all this, nature is never spent;
There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs—
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.