THE YOUNG CHICKENS
“The hatching of the eggs does not take place all at once; sometimes it
is twenty-four hours before all the eggs are broken. A danger thus
arises. Divided between her desire to continue setting and her wish to
give her attention to the newly born, the mother may make some sudden
movement and unintentionally trample on the tender creatures, or even
leave the nest too soon, which would cause the loss of the backward
eggs. What, then, is to be done? The first-born are taken as carefully
as possible and placed in a basket stuffed with wool or cotton and put
in a warm place near the fire. When the whole family is hatched it is
restored to the mother.
“The first days are hard ones for the young chickens; they are so
delicate, poor little things, so chilly under their light yellow down.
Where will they be kept at first? Shall it be with the grown-up
poultry, a turbulent crowd, quarrelsome, rough, and without any
consideration for the weak? What would become of them, the little
innocents, not yet well balanced on their legs, in the midst of the
greedy hens which, in scratching for worms, might give them some brutal
kick? How dangerous for them to be with the quarrelsome cocks that
disdain to look out for the frightened little giddy-heads straying
about under their very spurs! No, no, that is not the place for them.
“What they require is a place set apart, isolated from the rough
grown-up poultry, heated to a mild temperature, and carpeted with fine
straw. If this place is wanting, recourse is had to a coop, a sort of
large cage, under which the mother is placed with some food. Sometimes
the bars of this refuge are far enough apart to permit the young
chickens to come in and go out at will, so as to enjoy their play;
sometimes they are too close together for this, and then the coop is
lifted a little at one side when it is desired to give liberty to the
captives. But the mother always stays in the cage, whence she watches
over the young chickens, calling them to her at the least appearance of
danger. If the weather is fine, the coop is placed out of doors in an
exposed spot, with a sheltering canopy of canvas, foliage, or straw,
when the sun is too hot.”
“There the young chickens are safe,” said Emile, “out of danger of any
accident amongst the boisterous population of the poultry-yard. If some
danger arises, the hen gives her warning call, and those that are
outside immediately scamper through the narrow passage and take refuge
with their mother. Now about their food.”
“Food is not forgotten: under the coop is a plate containing water, and
another with pap. For very young chickens it is not yet time for strong
food, hard grain which requires a vigorous stomach to digest; they must
have something at once nutritious and easy to digest. Their pap is
composed of finely crumbled bread, a few salad leaves well chopped up,
hard-boiled eggs, and a pinch of fine millet to accustom them by
degrees to a diet of grain. The whole is carefully mixed.
“On coming out of the shell, the young chickens, like other birds from
a relatively large egg, are quick at taking food for themselves;
nevertheless it is necessary, from their utter inexperience, for the
mother to show them how to strike the beak into the pap. Let us witness
this lesson of the first mouthful. The farmer’s wife has just put the
food under the coop. ‘What is this?’ perhaps the innocent little
chickens ask, their stomachs beginning to cry hunger now that they have
been nearly twenty-four hours out of the shell. ‘What is this?’ All
flurried with joy, the mother calls them to the plate in accents
resembling articulate speech. They approach, tottering on their little
legs. The hen then gives a few pecks in the mess, but only pretends to
eat, so as not to diminish the dainty food reserved for the little
ones. One of the chickens, perhaps a little quicker of apprehension
than the rest, seems to have understood; it seizes a crumb of bread in
its beak but immediately lets it fall again. The mother begins again,
urges, encourages with her voice and look, and this time swallows in
plain sight of them all. The young chicken returns to its crumb and
after two or three attempts succeeds in swallowing it, half closing its
eyes with satisfaction. ‘Ha! how good it is!’ it seems to say; ‘let us
try again.’ And another crumb goes down; then a little piece of yolk of
egg follows. Henceforth it can manage for itself. The example spreads;
one here, another there, tries its beak; the hen repeating her patient
lesson for the less clever of the brood. Soon they have all understood
and are vying with one another in their assaults on the pap. Then comes
a lesson in drinking. How to plunge the beak fearlessly into the water,
how to raise the head heavenward so as to let the mouthful of liquid go
down the throat, is what the hen will show her pupils by repeated
examples. In imitating her, some giddy one will perhaps put its foot
into the water or even fall into the plate, a fearful possibility for
the inexperienced drinker. But the hen will dry the unfortunate one
under her wings and show it another time how to manage better. To be
brief, in a single short session the whole brood has been taught the
two chief needs of this world, eating and drinking.”
“They are scholars quick to learn,” said Jules. “It is true the
prompting of the stomach, hunger, must have helped them.”
“Hardly a week has passed before the young chickens are out of the coop
and running around, though not to any great distance, for if one
appears to want to go off the mother admonishes it and recalls it to
more prudent ways. If she suspects the slightest danger she recalls
them all to her retreat by a persuasive clucking. Immediately the
little chickens scamper back, squeeze between the bars or crawl under
the lifted end of the coop, and regain the refuge where no intruders
can penetrate. When the time comes for these first sallies outside the
coop, the hen can be set free and allowed to lead her family where she
pleases.
“One of the most interesting sights of the farm is that of the hen at
the head of her young chickens. With a slow step, measured by the
feebleness of her brood, she goes hither and thither on the chance of
finding something of value to her, always with vigilant eye and
attentive ear. She clucks with a voice made hoarse by her maternal
exertions; she scratches to dig up little seeds which the young ones
come and take from under her beak. Here is a good place chanced upon in
the sunshine for a rest from walking and for getting warm. The hen
crouches down, ruffles up her plumage and slightly raises her wings,
arching them in a sort of vault. All run and squat under the warm
cover. Two or three put their heads out of the window, their pretty
heads, all alert, framed in their mother’s somber plumage. One, in its
boldness, settles down on her back, and from this elevated position
pecks the hen’s neck; the others, the great majority, hide in her down
and sleep or peep softly. The siesta finished, they resume their
promenade, the mother scratching and clucking, the little ones trotting
around her.
“But what is this? It is the shadow of a bird of prey, which for a
moment has darkened the sunshine of the courtyard. The menacing
apparition did not last more than the twinkling of an eye; nevertheless
the hen saw it. Danger threatens, the rapacious bird is not far away.
At the note of alarm the young chickens hasten to take refuge under the
mother, who makes a rampart for them of her wings. And now the ravisher
may come. This mother, so feeble, so timid, that a mere nothing would
put her to flight on all other occasions, becomes imposingly audacious
where her brood is concerned. Let the goshawk appear, and the hen, full
of tenderness and intrepidity, will throw herself in front of the
terrible talons. By the beating of her wings, her redoubled cries, her
furious pecks with her beak, she will hold her own against the bird of
prey, until at last it beats a retreat, repulsed by this indomitable
resistance.
“The attachment of the hen to her young is shown in another very
remarkable circumstance. As she is an excellent brooder, they sometimes
give her ducks’ eggs to hatch. The hen brings up her adopted family as
she would her own; she exercises the same care over the little ducks as
she would over chickens of her own. All goes well as long as the
ducklings, covered with a velvety yellow down, conform to the ways of
their nurse and run under her wing at the first summons. But a time
comes when their aquatic instinct awakens. They smell the pond, the
neighboring pond, where the frog croaks and the tadpole frisks. They go
waddling along, one after another, the old hen following them in
ignorance of their project. They reach the pond and dash into the
water. Then it is that the hen, believing the very lives of her little
ones in peril, gives vent to the most desperate outcry. In her mortal
terror the poor mother races in distraction along the bank, her voice
hoarse with emotion, her plumage bristling with fear. She calls,
menaces, supplicates. An angry red mounts to her comb, the fire of
despair illumines her eye. She even goes—miracle of mother love—she
even goes so far as to risk one foot in the water, that perfidious
element, the sight of which makes her almost faint with fear. But to
all her supplications the little ducklings turn a deaf ear, happy in
their pursuit of the silver-bellied tadpole among the cresses.”
“Oh, the little rascals,” exclaimed Emile, “not to listen to their
nurse’s warnings! However, as they are ducks they can’t get along
without water.”
“They go there very often alone at first, in spite of the hen’s
remonstrances; then, reassured by the first attempts, she willingly
leads them to the bath and from the bank watches their joyful gambols.”