I have always been in the habit of collecting junk.
Not junk, junk, that is obviously something that should be thrown away. I just have, perhaps because of coinciding Great Depression upbringing, the habit of saving anything and everything that I thought could possibly be used later.
As a result, the shelves at the end of the little outbuilding where I housed my birds while urban living became sway-back loaded with this and that and many other things.
In this building was where I separately caged, in addition to my canaries, a half-dozen pair of different breed show bantams. Among this collection was a trio of gold laced bantams.
As they were not good flyers, I had placed their cage under the workbench-height shelving, instead of on top of, as the others were, allowing them to enter and exit more readily whenever they should so want.
Along about the midweek of February, when the winter winds fringed their water cups with ice crystals, one of the little hens disappeared. I just assumed, though seeing no signs in the cage’s low placement, that a weasel or rat had dragged her off, perhaps among the collected accoutrement on the sagging overburdened shelf. Yet the pair that was left seemed to show no sign of stress.
Hindsight math suggests that on the day approximately three weeks later, when I went out to feed once again, I saw what I thought to be a rooster-killed, dead mouse stretched out on the floor.
I kicked it aside with the toe of my boot, only instantly realizing that what I had just kicked was not a mouse. What it was was a newly-hatched gold laced bantam chick.
The missing hen must have hidden and hatched it. It was, of course, cold and stiff, but creature lover that I am, I dropped it into my shirt pocket with the intention of zip-locking it in a small bag, keeping it in the freezer until spring, and giving it the dignified burial it obviously deserved in the garden.
But that didn’t happen. The warmth of my shirt pocket, and the ten-minute time laps while I finished feeding, gave the tiny creature a new hold on life.
When I entered our house, I felt a tiny quiver in my pocket. Out in my hand it quivered again, so I cupped it quickly between my palms and blew, time and time again, to warm it with my moist breath.
Moments later it opened its eyes, stood up on wobbly legs, and started peeping loudly. Needless to say, my fondness for the gold laced cochin became an addiction.
History notes tell us that military personnel of England first brought them back from China during the 1860s. They are a true bantam; heavily feathered down their legs and toes appearing much larger than they really are. They are gentle, good layers, excellent setters, good mothers, eye- catching, and perfect with children.
There is no doubt in my mind that there is no better way than having a pair of gold laced cochins happily scratching for bugs in your own backyard to educate your child about how the world turns.
Take care, ‘cause we care.
barrie@barriehopkins.ca
519-986-4105