Timing Is Everything

The last few days have been a bit hectic in our country bolt hole. I thought I heard the sweet little sound of baby chicks a few days ago and I was right. The next morning John saw some babies trying to walk and attempting to eat some bits of food on the very sodden ground outside of our kitchen. I could barely make out the silhouettes of these offspring through the window since everything was so wet and cold and the condensation on the glass panes hadn’t cleared yet. Our hen sitting under a very large clump of grass with outstretched wings had some little peepers peeking out from under her.
Within an hour or so of that sighting we’d managed by hook or by crook to get both the mother hen and her hatchlings into the barn to dry out. She was offered some food close to her and when the time was ripe, John caught her and walked her into the newly refreshed chook house. I meanwhile, followed obediently with a bucket full of the chicks that I caught very easily. Too easily. They were so very young and weak and probably could have used a rescue mission the night before. When we looked in the nest there were some eggshells and more eggs, as yet undisturbed by any growing baby inside and some dead chicks. In our entire time raising chickens we’ve never had such an untimely arrival in winter. Chicks are normally born in spring through summer. But our seasons have all been upset and different and with constant inundation. Our flock and many others around here are very confused. But some of these lived, so that’s a blessing.
Life and death on a farm are very connected. Some creatures just enter the world at the very worst time and so the odds are stacked against them unless they’re found very quickly. Although the mother hen’s instincts led her to the wrong location to have her broody period in, it was fortunately within earshot and easy to see during feeding time. Otherwise, no one would have come to her aid in time. Like the hen that put her nest in harm’s way in the lowest part of our back garden last year. Those eggs were covered with water just before the chicks were due to hatch. Such is life in a rural retreat. There’s no getting around a poorly chosen site. Another hen nearby chose to be under a gigantic grass dome at the end of a pathway with thick shrubbery all around it lending some protection from the cold and during summer when days and nights were considerably warmer. This poor mother has been sitting in freezing temperatures under this unprotected grass with only occasional fleeting sunlight cut off by the large surrounding trees and our house roof. She had the right idea but the wrong spot.
But now our focus is on getting the chicks stronger so they’ll survive. And three days later they seem to have turned a corner. It was touch and go for a day or so and we lost another baby. But now they seem to be coming into their own and the mother has certainly reclaimed her beautiful feathers. From bedraggled and almost drowned to beautiful in three short days of protection from the rain sitting on dry straw instead of swampy mud. It’s so gratifying to have prevailed against nature in this instance. Well done us. Good job.