I am pleased to report that my eight ducks have survived the great chill, when their pond was frozen over; for during all that time no fox ever ventured across the ice to kill them. And now that the ice has melted they are looking much more frolicsome and less forlorn. But strange things have been going on among my chickens. All eight of them, too, are alive and well (maybe all foxes now live in towns), but their laying habits have become very eccentric.
Finding eggs never ceases to be exciting, even for someone of my advanced age, but I got a nasty shock the other day when I picked up one egg to find that it was all soft and squidgy — no shell, just membrane. I put it down in horror and disgust. And then next day I found a tiny egg, no bigger that a quail’s egg, but which couldn’t have come from any bird other than a chicken because it had been laid during the night when the chickens were shut in to secure them from intruders.
Since then hardly a day has passed without my finding another miniature egg, though I still don’t know which of my chickens is responsible for this piece of whimsy.
Comments
Join the debate for just $5 for 3 months
Be part of the conversation with other Spectator readers by getting your first three months for $5.
UNLOCK ACCESS Just $5 for 3 monthsAlready a subscriber? Log in