Tag: hens

The Tale of Little Bad Hen

Once upon a time there were five little hens.  They lived in a little wooden hut in a wood.  A  nice family of humans had adopted them, made meals and cleaned for them.  Every time the family cleaned the hut, they made sure there was a fresh copy of the Financial Times on the floor for the hens to read while they were resting at home.

Sometimes, the family went on holiday, and then they asked their neighbours Margaret and Malcolm to take over housekeeping duties.  Every night at 8 o’clock, these servants-next-door popped round, made sure the hens were in bed, and shut the hut door firmly.

One night one of the hens, Little Bad Hen, decided not to go home.  She was having such fun in the woods, grubbing for windfalls and worms: and besides, it was still light.  Nobody had told her that Mr. Fox lived nearby, and had hungry cubs to feed.  Luckily for her, nobody had told Mr. Fox that Little Bad Hen was out and about.  She got away with it, and came scuttling back as soon as one of the servants-next-door appeared to serve breakfast the following morning.

Little Bad Hen.

Little Bad Hen kept this up for four whole nights, clucking smugly to herself as she heard the servants-next-door scurrying about the woods, peering under logs and into hidey-holes searching for her.  On the fifth evening, it rained. Little Bad Hen looked up at the sky.  She considered the secret-but-chilly and damp shelter that she’d found, under little Felix’s toy wheelbarrow.  Perhaps that wooden hut, where she could cuddle up to her friends and sisters was a better idea after all.  She might even think about laying those servants-next-door an egg.

Normal egg. One laid by Little Bad Hen or friend.

 

In which William talks to the animals … and finds something from the Easter Bunny

William’s a London child.  His commute to nursery passes railway tracks and city streets, as well as a walk through a rather nice park. The animals my grandson sees on his daily round are dogs-on-leads, cats and urban foxes.

We wanted Yorkshire to offer him something different.  On his very first afternoon, we visited two-day-old lambs in the field at the end of the road, wobbly on their legs and clinging to their mothers.  Later we’d visit older lambs, confidently running and jumping across a public footpath as William wandered among them.

Newborn twin lambs with mum.

 

Confident lambs, confident William.

Then it was off to the duck pond.  Two Mrs. Moorhens had a chick each, so light that even pond weed could bear their weight: were they walking on water?  Mrs. Mallard had eight balls of fluff scuttling from land to pond to rushes – constantly on the move.

A moorhen chick walks on water.
A mother mallard and her eight babies.  Except the eighth is off-camera.

The next morning, good friends Gill and David invited us over.  There were puppies to pet, dogs and a cat to stroke.  And then there was Reggie, their grandson’s very own Thelwell pony.  Reggie turned out to be far too scary to ride, but perfectly good to take for a walk.

Gill, William and Sarah take Reggie walkabout.

Then William was put to work, collecting eggs.  He didn’t break very many as he dropped them none too gently into his collecting basket.  Afterwards he fed the hens.  And we went home for scrambled eggs on toast.  Thank you William.  Thank you Gill, David and the hens.

William’s collecting eggs….
…. and feeding the hens.
William’s personally-gathered eggs for a scrambled egg lunch.  Mmm….

Late one afternoon, William and I went for a walk in the woods and saw rabbits, a dozen or more, grazing the grass on the other side of the fence.

I wonder if it was one of them who left the chocolate eggs that William found in the garden when he went hunting for them on Easter Sunday?

Hunting for the Easter Bunny’s eggs.