A View From Robin's Nest
Cheap Cheeps
Bright-Eyed Beauties
Robin Hoselton
Perhaps money can’t buy love, but it can buy a wondrous life experience-—and for only fifty-eight cents. For several fifty-eight cents, turned over to a local hatchery, I took possession of two lightweight boxes with the assurance that one box contained 25 Rhode Island Red chicks, and the other, 25 Barred Plymouth Rock.
I waited until we got into the car to say to Tom, “How can there be 25 chicks in each one? A pair of shoes wouldn’t fit into these boxes. They’re either jammed in like sardines or they made a mistake and didn’t give us 25.”
With a knowing grin, Tom suggested, “Open them up and see.”
Gingerly, so they wouldn’t get out, I lifted one corner of a lid and felt my eyebrows rise in amazement. The bright-eyed bits of fluff were so tiny that half a dozen more could have fit inside the box.
Secondly, I thought all chicks were yellow. Easter displays, story books, even the hatchery ads, misled me. These chicks were black! I put the lid back on and peeked into the other box. Its denizens wore golden-brown fuzz. I noted some of the perforated circles on the boxes were closed.
“Do you think I should punch out all these air holes?” I asked Tom.
“You can if you want to,” he replied.
What kind of answer was that? I considered the matter. Suppose I were a helpless baby creature in a dark box when all of a sudden a giant finger poked through the wall. If the finger didn’t impale me, it would frighten me to death. I decided not to.
Too Hot? Too Cold?
“Do you think they’re too cold? Maybe we ought to turn on the heater,” I said.“They’ll be all right,” answered Tom, “They go through the mail with no heat.”
“But my Beginner’s Guide to Raising Chickens says they should be kept at a 90º temperature,” I said.
Tom gave me one of his I-may-as-well-pacify-her looks and turned on the heater. Minutes later, with sweat dripping off my nose, I conceded, “Maybe they’ll be okay until we get home.”
Off went the heater.
A few miles later, I peeked under the box lids to make sure the chicks were still alive.
“You don’t suppose they’ll die of thirst, do you?” I asked Tom.
And, so, went our trip home. I fretted that the chicks might be too cold, too hot, too thirsty, too frightened, and any other “too” that came to mind. Tom should be nominated for sainthood for not hurting my feelings by stifling his laughter.
As for the chicks, they made it through my ordeal just fine.
At home, I put the boxes next to the wood stove in the living room and went about my business, grinning foolishly whenever I heard a series of cheeps.
Every three hours throughout the night, I stoked the stove. It was worse than having a newborn.
The next morning I fetched my mother-in-law who showed me how to set up the brooder (which we borrowed from her), and the light (also borrowed from her), and the feeders and water jars (yes, borrowed).Like a proud mother, I couldn’t resist bragging about my offspring whenever anyone asked what was new. This included an unwary parcel post driver, the propane gas supplier and the dairy farmer down the road.
I’ve retained my mom-in-law as a consultant and call her daily. She imparts wisdom that isn’t in my Beginner’s Guide and patiently listens to my startling discoveries.
“Guess what. My chicks already have itty-bitty wing feathers!”
I’m concerned that eventually Tom may want a hen on the dinner table, but as Scarlett O’Hara proclaimed, “tomorrow is another day.”