Bertie stood in front of the four other chickens and took stock of the Rhode Island Red that had been left inside the chicken house door by John. John had raised Bertie from a chick and she trusted him. Her life in the chicken house had always been safe and well-fed because of John. John took care of her and she, in turn, took on the responsibility of mother hen for the four younger chickens in the brood.
For the past two weeks John had talked nonstop about the Rhode Island Red that he had purchased in Raleigh. She had immaculate coloring and fine composure. He would fatten her up a bit and show her at the Galax Poultry Show. She would bring some pure bred aristocracy and city know-how to the chicken house.
Bertie looked over the new bird who now stood by the door. She could appreciate the fine auburn feathers, but couldn’t find an ounce of kindness in the clear brown eyes. She took a hesitant step forward and started her greetings, “Welcome to the country. I’m Bertie and we’ve been waiting to meet you. There’s scratch on the ground in the chicken yard and we’d be pleased to learn about you over dinner.”
The red hen warmed her look, but her words were cold, “I certainly hope you won’t think me rude, but I am tired and don’t care for eating. My throat is delicate and I couldn’t possibly talk to all of you tonight. I’ll hop to the roost and settle in for the night and will ask that you please respect my space and be a quiet as possible while I rest.”
Good as her word she hopped to the roost and closed her chicken eyes. Bertie whirled around and led the astonished crowd out to the yard “Well, I never,” she began. “John said we could learn a lot from her, but she won’t even talk. What kind of bird is she anyway?” Bertie led the mad hens in a quiet parade around the chicken yard with mutterings about waiting until tomorrow.
The next morning John came at first light to collect eggs and change the water. He tattled the news of the day to Bertie, but looked annoyed when he had to push the Rhode Island hen off the roost. “A wise hen gets about early with the others,” he warned her as he walked out the chicken house door.
The red hen frowned at her bright-eyed companions. “I don’t like to be pushed,” She announced with a sneer. “I do come from the finest of houses in a long line of Rhode Island Reds from Wake County. Our house had lovely wooden nesting bins filled with wood shavings from Canada. This is really quite marginal,” She concluded as she surveyed her current surroundings and settled a disdainful gaze on Bertie.
Bertie mustered a determination to try to get some useful conversation from this Lady bird. After all, she was responsible for educating her companions and she just couldn’t let this opportunity pass by. “We would be most interested in learning about how to organize our chicken house to make this a better place. Could you share some of your experience and ideas with us?” Bertie asked.
Lady smiled sweetly, “I do have a breadth of breeding from which you would benefit, but it is not worth my time to casually walk about and speak to one or two of you at a time. I’ll rest this morning and prepare some remarks on proper nesting for you for tomorrow. Assemble your group and I will speak from the roost at 9 am in the morning. I’ll expect quiet today as I’m thinking,” she concluded before strutting to the feed bin.
The day passed quietly enough and the next morning began with John’s usual visit. He scattered scratch in the yard for Bertie, W.C., Sweetie, Tash and Peaches who chucked noisly and raked the ground to scratch up the best seeds. He scowled at the red bird perched lazily on the roost and gave her a shove that sent her flapping toward the chicken house floor. “Best get to bein’ friendly or you’ll wind up in a pot of trouble,” he announced as he closed the door.
Lady ignored his words and took a dab of water and a few pellets of laying mash from the feeder before returning to the roost. When Bertie thought she was settled she led the other hens into the house and stood in front of the roost to see if Lady would honor her commitment to speak.
Lady gazed down from the heights and began her remarks, “I have traveled extensively and know the best when I see it. Your house is in scandalous condition. The floor is simple dirt and cedar shavings and you will never be able to produce clean eggs in this environment. Where I come from we are perfect and you are not. What more can I say.” To the astonishment of Bertie and the others she concluded this speech and closed her eyes.
Bertie stomped out to the yard. “Who can learn from that? Why did she come here anyway? Who cares what she knows or where she’s been when she won’t share it?” Bertie’s complaints were interrupted by the sound of the chicken house door opening. The birds watched as John swept in and swiftly snatched the Lady bird up by her chicken legs and swung her upside down and out the door in a very unlady-like position.
The chickens heard one squawk and then silence. Moments later John’s footsteps were heard walking toward the house and his voice floated through the hex netting. “I declare,” he said, “I have never seen a bird so selfish. Been a chicken man all my life. Always appreciated a good bird, a bird that will talk to you, a bird that will go to the fence and watch the world, a bird that scratches and chatters with the rest. Don’t care a whit for fancy feathers if there isn’t a fine bird underneath. Cousin Henry always did like a good baked hen,” he said as his voice trailed off in the breeze.