A couple of months after her first family went to chick-Heaven, Peaches dared to get broody again. Frankly, I had imagined she would go for it earlier, but something must have told her not to take the risk. Not to spend another exhausting three weeks incubating before she felt really strong.
This time, I took the precaution of scattering her nest with anti-mite powder. Then off to the University farm I sped for another half dozen fertilised broiler eggs, which I sequestered (as before) under her butt as she slept. I also checked in my favorite chicken-keeping book (Rosslyn Mannering’s FOWLS AND HOW TO KEEP THEM – charmingly pompous 40’s tome – Duchess of Devonshire’s fave) about sprinkling the eggs with tepid water on day 19, so as to soften the membranes and give the chicks an easier escape. Three days later – at 22 days – the miracle happened again.
This time, all five chicks were sturdy (no mites to drain them). As it was the end of August and the nights were getting cold, I put the whole family in a cardboard box and brought them indoors where their home became the recycling box. I was determined to keep a close eye on them. And so were my daughters – utterly charmed, of course, by their cheeping yellow pompoms.
Day three, and the cheeping had become a cacophony, their box was stinky and they looked as though they needed room to roam. Ceremoniously, we carried them outdoors again and transferred them back to the run. It didn’t take long to realise how Peaches’ previous babies had managed to escape – under that lovely custard-coloured fluff their bodies are absolutely teeny – teeny enough to squeeze through the mesh of an eglu run. I had somehow thought a vulnerable chick would think twice before leaving its mother, but watching these babes ease their heads between the bars, I realised that inquisitiveness is an even more powerful instinct than safety. The solution – a line of boards around the bottom of the run to hem them in until they’re bigger.
