- Nov 10, 2014
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Gentle Readers,
As you may recall from our last episode, the Clickard Chicken Empire was in distress. Rooster dead by Yuletide, hens resorting to sad attempts to crow this Spring. No broody hen successfully bringing off a clutch in 2 years. A grim situation!
On the 21st of June I got 11 young chickens from Rural King:
4 barred rock pullets, my favorites
2 light yellow colored pullets, I hoped were buff orpingtons for broody hens
2 strippedy pullets, I hoped were silver laced Wyandottes for winter layers
3 of the largest black tough buggers in the straight run tray I hoped were barred rock cockerelles
(hoping to get a brood next year) They were not day-olds, but probably month-olds, with considerable hard feathering and not much fluff left.
[As you may know, I contacted the surviving g’mas on both sides to consult with them on the traditional family chicken, back in 1995.
Both sides of the family kept Barred Rocks, Buff Orpingtons for broody hens, Reds (Rhode Island or New Hampshire), and Leghorns for white eggs.
My wife's clan, who lived much further north, almost in Iowa, also kept Silver Laced Wyandottes for the winter egg laying.]
I put the newly arrived youngsters in the pen under the chicken house. It takes at least 3 nights in one place for dislocated chickens to call a new place home, so confinement is a requirement. One of my hens, who was hatched in that chicken house, had gone broody and had to be forcibly removed from the eggs every day for a month just to gather them. She wanted chicks, but with no rooster around, she was out of luck. As far as she was concerned, however, every day I was taking her babies away. I am a monster.
I am happy to say that the broody hen stayed by the wire talking with them all of the time, even sleeping by the wire. This was very encouraging. She was using fluff displays, and making mommy hen noises, too.
But what about the little chickens? Some authorities say they are too old after a month to imprint on a hen, and were doomed to be orphans, at most imprinted on each other as a social unit. These authorities, however, also say that a chick will only recognize a single hen as its mommy, and yet I have seen shared broods here at the Empire, when the hens were good enough friends to permit it.
On the morning of the 24th I opened up the fenced chicken run and the doors in the chicken house that led to the outside world. By way of preparation I had several widely separated feeding and watering stations so that no bully could keep the youngsters from getting necessities. If the broody hen really wanted to protect the chicks, then even if they refused her, she could do a lot to protect them. Would the youngsters be capable of recognizing a mother hen?
Even after I had opened up a front and a back door, the little ones were too timid to go out the front door at all, and would only go out the back door into the yard the length of a single baby chicken leap that would take them back to safety under the house. [ I retreated far up the hill, because the broody hen has seen me cut off the heads of some chickens in her time, and concluded that I am DEATH. So when I had come down to open the doors, she screamed, “Run for your lives, little ones! Follow me!”, and lit out for the woods. She made a whale of a racket, screaming, squawking and flapping. ]
In just a few minutes, however, the broody hen (a penciled and partridge feathered beauty she is, too), crept into the back door of the run, calling very softly to the chicks. She stopped in the middle of the run, several feet from the chicken house and sat down, fluffing her feathers, and waited for them. And glory be, inside of a minutes the boldest of the new batch were out there with her, some under her wing and some standing on her back, just as if she had the hen who had hatched them and dried their fluff, rather than a steel machine and a light bulb, which is what they had really gotten. Not having a mommy is pretty hard.
But now they got a mommy. She tried to take them into the woods yesterday, but they were too timid, and wanted to stay close to the chicken house, so she stayed with them.
Within a few minutes after opening the doors, a very high ranking hen (who beats up the broody hen regularly, violence being a staple of chicken relations) strolled into the run from the back door. Chickens are curious creatures. A bug to eat might be anywhere, and a new place hasn’t been hunted out yet and is very attractive. The beta was not going to miss out exploring the back run, which was now open. This was a crucial moment. A hen with chicks to guard will fight, regardless of her status in the pecking order, and some bully hens will injure a mommy hen or her chicks. The beta hen (New Hampshire red line), wandered farther into the back run ... the lowly partridge feathered mommy hen turned to face the intruder, calling to her babies to gather up and beware ... the New Hampshire approached to investigate ... Mommy lowered her head to strike if necessary, spread her wings and fluffed her feathers in an aggression display ... and the New Hampshire said, “Oh, my dear, I see you have new babies. Congratulations. Do not let me disturb you. Furthest thing from my mind. Yes, quite. Where was I? Oh, now I remember, bug hunting in the woods. Yes, indeed. Must be off. Pardon me, won’t you?” And off she went.
The alpha female (an ancient barred feather cross) never went over at all for at least an hour, and all she did was go in the house, prove to herself that she could feed and water there, and leave. The other three hens were mildly interested and polite about it. No pushy insistence on being introduced. No attempts to take over the brood. Less friction than normal, even. The ladies approve of the change. “About time, too.” “ Elevates the standard of the yard as a whole, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes, my dear, I quite agree.” “Nothing like little ones around, if they know their place.” “Naturally.” “Dibs on that grasshopper!” “Out of my way!”
So all is well that ends well.
Last night was a cold one for this time of year. But no worries. The new little ones had a Mommy for the first time last night. When I checked on them after sunset (to close up the doors to the chicken house – Rusty the back yard guard dog is not 100% proof against raccoons, possums and weasels) I found the new family in a corner, all together in a warm nest Mommy had gathered from the straw. And this morning ... aside from a couple of wild youngsters who were already hopping about ... they were all in the same place this morning.
I opened the chicken house doors and refreshed the food and water stations. Mommy hen told her brood in no uncertain terms that I was a chicken killer, and they went silent and ran behind her or under her wings. And now, out of the kitchen window, while enjoying my French Roast/Timor blend, I see her, counting heads and calling their names, leading her babies towards the woods ...
As you may recall from our last episode, the Clickard Chicken Empire was in distress. Rooster dead by Yuletide, hens resorting to sad attempts to crow this Spring. No broody hen successfully bringing off a clutch in 2 years. A grim situation!
On the 21st of June I got 11 young chickens from Rural King:
4 barred rock pullets, my favorites
2 light yellow colored pullets, I hoped were buff orpingtons for broody hens
2 strippedy pullets, I hoped were silver laced Wyandottes for winter layers
3 of the largest black tough buggers in the straight run tray I hoped were barred rock cockerelles
(hoping to get a brood next year) They were not day-olds, but probably month-olds, with considerable hard feathering and not much fluff left.
[As you may know, I contacted the surviving g’mas on both sides to consult with them on the traditional family chicken, back in 1995.
Both sides of the family kept Barred Rocks, Buff Orpingtons for broody hens, Reds (Rhode Island or New Hampshire), and Leghorns for white eggs.
My wife's clan, who lived much further north, almost in Iowa, also kept Silver Laced Wyandottes for the winter egg laying.]
I put the newly arrived youngsters in the pen under the chicken house. It takes at least 3 nights in one place for dislocated chickens to call a new place home, so confinement is a requirement. One of my hens, who was hatched in that chicken house, had gone broody and had to be forcibly removed from the eggs every day for a month just to gather them. She wanted chicks, but with no rooster around, she was out of luck. As far as she was concerned, however, every day I was taking her babies away. I am a monster.
I am happy to say that the broody hen stayed by the wire talking with them all of the time, even sleeping by the wire. This was very encouraging. She was using fluff displays, and making mommy hen noises, too.
But what about the little chickens? Some authorities say they are too old after a month to imprint on a hen, and were doomed to be orphans, at most imprinted on each other as a social unit. These authorities, however, also say that a chick will only recognize a single hen as its mommy, and yet I have seen shared broods here at the Empire, when the hens were good enough friends to permit it.
On the morning of the 24th I opened up the fenced chicken run and the doors in the chicken house that led to the outside world. By way of preparation I had several widely separated feeding and watering stations so that no bully could keep the youngsters from getting necessities. If the broody hen really wanted to protect the chicks, then even if they refused her, she could do a lot to protect them. Would the youngsters be capable of recognizing a mother hen?
Even after I had opened up a front and a back door, the little ones were too timid to go out the front door at all, and would only go out the back door into the yard the length of a single baby chicken leap that would take them back to safety under the house. [ I retreated far up the hill, because the broody hen has seen me cut off the heads of some chickens in her time, and concluded that I am DEATH. So when I had come down to open the doors, she screamed, “Run for your lives, little ones! Follow me!”, and lit out for the woods. She made a whale of a racket, screaming, squawking and flapping. ]
In just a few minutes, however, the broody hen (a penciled and partridge feathered beauty she is, too), crept into the back door of the run, calling very softly to the chicks. She stopped in the middle of the run, several feet from the chicken house and sat down, fluffing her feathers, and waited for them. And glory be, inside of a minutes the boldest of the new batch were out there with her, some under her wing and some standing on her back, just as if she had the hen who had hatched them and dried their fluff, rather than a steel machine and a light bulb, which is what they had really gotten. Not having a mommy is pretty hard.
But now they got a mommy. She tried to take them into the woods yesterday, but they were too timid, and wanted to stay close to the chicken house, so she stayed with them.
Within a few minutes after opening the doors, a very high ranking hen (who beats up the broody hen regularly, violence being a staple of chicken relations) strolled into the run from the back door. Chickens are curious creatures. A bug to eat might be anywhere, and a new place hasn’t been hunted out yet and is very attractive. The beta was not going to miss out exploring the back run, which was now open. This was a crucial moment. A hen with chicks to guard will fight, regardless of her status in the pecking order, and some bully hens will injure a mommy hen or her chicks. The beta hen (New Hampshire red line), wandered farther into the back run ... the lowly partridge feathered mommy hen turned to face the intruder, calling to her babies to gather up and beware ... the New Hampshire approached to investigate ... Mommy lowered her head to strike if necessary, spread her wings and fluffed her feathers in an aggression display ... and the New Hampshire said, “Oh, my dear, I see you have new babies. Congratulations. Do not let me disturb you. Furthest thing from my mind. Yes, quite. Where was I? Oh, now I remember, bug hunting in the woods. Yes, indeed. Must be off. Pardon me, won’t you?” And off she went.
The alpha female (an ancient barred feather cross) never went over at all for at least an hour, and all she did was go in the house, prove to herself that she could feed and water there, and leave. The other three hens were mildly interested and polite about it. No pushy insistence on being introduced. No attempts to take over the brood. Less friction than normal, even. The ladies approve of the change. “About time, too.” “ Elevates the standard of the yard as a whole, don’t you think?” “Oh, yes, my dear, I quite agree.” “Nothing like little ones around, if they know their place.” “Naturally.” “Dibs on that grasshopper!” “Out of my way!”
So all is well that ends well.
Last night was a cold one for this time of year. But no worries. The new little ones had a Mommy for the first time last night. When I checked on them after sunset (to close up the doors to the chicken house – Rusty the back yard guard dog is not 100% proof against raccoons, possums and weasels) I found the new family in a corner, all together in a warm nest Mommy had gathered from the straw. And this morning ... aside from a couple of wild youngsters who were already hopping about ... they were all in the same place this morning.
I opened the chicken house doors and refreshed the food and water stations. Mommy hen told her brood in no uncertain terms that I was a chicken killer, and they went silent and ran behind her or under her wings. And now, out of the kitchen window, while enjoying my French Roast/Timor blend, I see her, counting heads and calling their names, leading her babies towards the woods ...
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