Monday In The Garden of EdenOnly The French...(Hen) Dared
"Mom, there are no eggs left in the fridge!", the little girl wailed. "Well, go out to the hen house and get them. And, while you're there, feed the "girls" and that old rooster. Make sure there's enough water for them too. Can't have the hens going dry on us.", Mom said.
Two short, spindly legs trotted out the back door and down the stairs. The sun was just rising bright and golden. The hen house was a homemade affair surrounded by a six foot high wire mesh fence and a solid wood door with a small "peep" hole at the center top. Inside were rows of perches her father called "roosts".
She thought her father had mispronounced the word in his thick Italian accent and really meant "roots". She reached for the ever-present wicker basket that sat upon a cinder block outside the hen house. She would deposit this morning's collection of fresh eggs into it....if she succeeded.
The little girl peered inside the hen house with caution, measuring every breath she took. The hens were ambling around the open perimeter squawking at each other. Now, where's that rooster?, the little girl wondered. She knew that her presence in his territory was not welcome. She knew that, from the minute he laid his beady dark eyes on her and decided to stop her in her tracks with his menacing glare. How a rooster can glare is a mystery. But, they can.
Most of the hens were a combination of black, white, grey and blue Jersey Giants, Nankings and several colorful bantams. One of the hens was very, very different. In fact, downright unusual. The little girl's father had bought it for her as an Easter present. Then, it was just a little fuzzball of black silky down she could cradle in her lap or snuggle against her cheek. Now, it had grown acrobatic and was a feisty little hen with a comb on its head that look like a black waterfall gone wild. Her father told her it was a French hen, a Caumont to be exact.
In the hen house, "Frenchy", as the little girl so named it, was largely noblisse oblige at the feed trough. She preferred to only "know" what was going on with the others. She refused to get too involved with those common bred hens With that raggedy old rooster, however, she was a bit of a flirt. She confidently strutted her silky feathers past his beak until he was boggled senseless.
Somehow, Frenchy sensed the little girl's fear of the boss of hen house. The poor little waif., Frenchy thought. Scared to death of that old show off. Oh well. I guess I'll just have to distract him so she can collect her eggs and eat her breakfast.
The little girl stood stock still just inside the hen house door, defensively searching for a sign of the rooster. Any sudden move and he was sure to lunge for her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Frenchy heading toward her. It was obvious now that the rooster had positioned himself out of the little girl's view for a reason. His pointy beak was aimed for her legs.
"Not now Frenchy. I have to get the eggs.", she told her ally in the "Battle of the hen house rooster versus the egg collector". The little girl thought the French hen just wanted attention. Instead, Frenchy slyly made a sharp detour around to the back of the half-opened door.
Miss America couldn't possibly have handled the catwalk as well as Frenchy. She kept the rooster's rapt attention while the little girl collected a half dozen eggs and put them into her basket. She quickly dumped feed into the trough and gave the fastest glance humanly possible at their water supply. Then, she beat a hasty retreat out the hen house door. Frenchy was still occupied doing her "Bette Davis Eyes" routine with the rooster.
Old roosters do not appreciate being the butt of a trick. When he realized what his French charge d'affaire had done, he was not amused. Worse, he felt a tad stupid for falling for her wiles. He flapped his mighty rooster wings at her and sent her flying. How dare she pull a stunt like that on him?
Frenchy dared, alright. Oh yes. She dared.
Views: 109
Comments: 3
Bookmarks: 0
