This column first appeared in the Victoria Daily Times on June 29, 1940.
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When the cares of life grow too heavy for mortal endurance 鈥� and that time seems to have arrived 鈥� it is well to have some way of escape; temporary, of course, but nonetheless welcome.
A man named Harvey once wrote a poem in praise of ducks, which begins like this: 鈥淔rom the troubles of the world, I turn to ducks. Beautiful comical things, sleeping or curled their heads beneath white wings by waters cool.鈥� He likes to see them on the pool, tails uppermost, 鈥渙r waddling, sailor-like, on the shoes, or paddling with fan-like feet for oars. When they float, each bird a boat.鈥�
And he likes to think, too, of how they sleep at night. 鈥淲hen night is fallen, you and I creep upstairs, but drakes and dillies meet with pale water stars, moonbeams and shadow bars and water lilies.鈥�
Then Harvey becomes philosophical and tells why he thinks the Creator made ducks: 鈥淗e made the comical ones in case the minds of men / Should stiffen and become dull, humourless and glum.鈥�
And no doubt that explains why bantams were made. A poultry-minded friend of mine tells me bantams are not a distinct breed of hen. They have been produced by selection of the small strains, for there are bantams, she says, of almost all breeds.
Now, whether it is that their diminutive size makes it necessary for them to develop qualities of courage and resourcefulness in order to hold their own, I do not know, but it is true that bantams are known for their independent and clever ways and have made a place for themselves in agriculture as pest destroyers.
It was in this capacity that we decided to get a dozen bantams. Our neighbours have them, and every morning we hear the bantam roosters waking the dawn with their glad salutes as they call out their forces to go earwigging. Bantams look after themselves, roost in trees, find nests for themselves, hatch out their young, expecting no help or guidance from anyone.
But when ours arrived in a slatted coop, I went out to welcome them. I felt I was the proper person to do this, having had advantages in my youth denied to the others. I had been the Keeper of the Hen House Door at the tender age of 11, and 鈥渕other鈥檚 help鈥� to many flocks in succeeding years.
Many a time I hunted through wet grain fields to find lost young turkeys. I had taken broody hens off nests, shut them up in dark places, or tied coloured rags on their feet for the same purpose. I had done dog鈥檚 duty in driving off hawks when that warning cry rose from the farmyard. So I though it was fitting that I should liberate these new birds and extend to them the hand of fellowship.
They were wild, of course, and strange, and fluttered away from me with cries, but I felt sure they would quickly know me for a good hen-hand. However, they took up a position as far from me as they could and gave me the hawk sign. But I persevered and filled their water pan and put out grain for them, making all the encouraging noises I knew, and which had always brought Manitoba hens to my side, but I could see that 鈥渃ookie, cookie, cookie,鈥� didn鈥檛 mean a thing to them.
In justice to them, I must say that they assumed full responsibility for the earwig situation and seemed to know just where our ground ended.
It was not long until one of the hens decided to set. We found her sitting on discarded bulbs, with the rapt look in her eye which meant she had settled down for the long term, looking straight ahead of her, grim and determined. She took no notice of anyone, but when one of her sisters came, beseeching the rich woman to spare a few bulbs out of her abundance, she gave battle with loud cries of rage. We slipped six eggs under her, feeling that all this effort must not be wasted. She sits there now, still grim and determined.
The best hen of the 11 is a modest little thing the colour of brown wrapping paper. In the first week she disappeared and we knew she was a true bantam. The self-sufficient isolationist, who would neither borrow nor lend, ask favours nor give them. We felt sure she had gone out on her own.
One day she stormed up to the kitchen door, hungry and clamorous. She flew at the grain we gave her, in a panic, and ate like a criminal pursued by the police, and then vanished. Every few days she appeared in this burst of impatience, but we were never able to discover where she had her nest.
Then one day we heard certain small sounds which could mean only one thing. Investigation showed she had made her nest at the foot of a peach tree, which grows against the south wall. There she sat, well protected by leaves, thin, red-eyed, but happy. Her 21 days had been accomplished and she had 13 chickens to her credit.
But what we would like to know is, how could one hen lay 13听eggs and hatch them out at one time. Or is it possible that the other hens gave her a shower?
Her chickens are getting feathers now and make a pretty sight as they travel across the lawn. They get up even earlier than we do, and wait for us to appear. They assemble in the same place every morning, and when they see us coming, run out in a semicircle.
On that Monday, June 10, when we all felt like Job as the bad news came in 鈥� Mussolini had declared war, our ships had been sunk in the North Sea, our gallant Minister of Defence and his companion had gone out in a second of time 鈥� I turned against the radio and went outside to visit with the bantams.
Daphne and her brood were busy among the young tomato plants. (We call her 鈥淒aphne鈥� because she turned into a tree when looking for safety, it should have been a laurel tree but the peach tree was handier.) On that black day I looked at her enviously.
She seemed so safe. She had no complication in her life, her food and drink are provided in abundance, her country is not at war. She had no regrets or forebodings or hesitations. She wandered at will among the roses and daisies, sweet williams and regal lilies. She has security of tenure, the earwig crop never fails.
As I watched her, scratching and calling, a shadow circled the lawn, and with a hoarse cry she fled with her family under the tree poppies, keeping very still until the danger passed. Then she gave them the all-clear sign, and they came out, cautiously. I got a knowing flint from her topaz-tined eye鈥� How do you mean safe?
Daphne has her hawks, too, but she carries on.
