Welcome to The Poultry Chronicles – True Poultry Tales shared in a way that is intriguing, informative and, above all, entertaining.
Don’t Count Your Chickens Before They Hatch
by Mark Hall
On a warm spring afternoon, I paused from my chores to watch our Delaware layers as they foraged happily at my feet. After a moment, one snatched up a worm and quickly split the scene, the treat still dangling from her beak as she ran. Instantly, pandemonium erupted as the entire flock chased her all over the yard, determined to steal her tender morsel.
Highly amused, I left the active bunch to their hilarity and walked over to the coop. Inside, I found two hens eyeing me from the quiet cool of the nest boxes. It was time to collect the eggs, so I picked up the basket and headed for the nearest hen, Gertie. Immediately, my encroaching hand met with a cautionary growl and several hard pecks. Surprised, I stepped back to ponder what had just happened. “What in the world was that about?” I wondered as I performed a brief damage assessment on my hand. Soon my irritation turned to intrigue, for it occurred to me that she may be ready to hatch some eggs. “Maybe you’re broody,” I surmised aloud.
Determined to find the answer, I plunged my hand back through the gauntlet. Thankfully the pecking stopped once I slipped it underneath her, where I found several warm eggs gently nestled. Carefully I pulled them out, leaving them barely within reach. Then I stepped back and watched for her response to this time-honored test. With a suspicious look, Gertie cocked her head to the side and looked up at me with one eye. A moment later, she stretched out her neck and, one at a time, pulled them back to safety with her beak. Her actions were indeed consistent with those of a broody hen. I was thrilled, for this was the desired result. In fact, I had been storing fertilized eggs for just such an occasion. Now I could finally remove the dormant fertilized eggs from the cool of the cellar and let them develop under this warm mother hen.
This was all well and good, but I still had not collected any eggs. Leaving Gertie alone for the moment, I reached into the nest box occupied by Stella. Incredibly, there was another growl followed by the all too familiar piercing pain of rapid hen pecks upon my hand. “Could it be that both of these hens are broody at the same time?” I wondered. After another blind search, I pulled out a few eggs and withdrew my hand, which was rapidly taking on the appearance of a pin cushion. Impressed, I watched her pass the very same test with flying colors. I really did have two broodies!
Well, this was no time for standing around in amazement. To avoid a major confrontation over nest boxes with the other layers, these broodies would have to be moved. Fortunately, I had just finished building a large brooding facility just outside the coop, where they could set without interruption. Inside, there were three luxurious hatching suites, all with access to a commodious common area. It might as well have been the Ritz Carlton. If there ever was a perfect place for hatching a dozen chicks or more, this was surely it.
Later that afternoon, the new structure was ready for use. Feed, water, and two assortments of fertilized eggs were inside, all on plenty of soft bedding. Conspicuously missing were the two broody hens, busily making life difficult for me. As it turned out, the job of moving them out of the nest boxes was akin, I suspect, to prying an ill-tempered badger from its burrow. With both hands, I reached inside the box to pick up Gertie. Given the overwhelming negative response to my one unwanted hand previously, it can only be imagined what fury was now unleashed at the inclusion of the other. After suffering many hard jabs with a beak not unlike an ice pick, I was finally able to reach past her head. She squirmed and backed away, but I somehow managed to extract her. With great difficulty I carried her out of the coop and in the direction of her new home. Several times a wing popped out and flapped wildly, causing me to nearly drop her. Then she thrashed about with her feet and tore my shirt in a desperate attempt to free herself completely.
Finally, I reached their new accommodations and hastily deposited her inside. After the long scuffle, neither one of us was in the mood for any fanfare. I scrapped the grand reception entirely and left her the option of a self-guided tour only. As I watched, she trudged around a bit but soon settled down on the eggs nearby. Relieved, I returned to the coop, hoping for an easier experience with Stella. Unfortunately, I encountered all the same transporting trouble, but unlike Gertie, she completely ignored her eggs and ran around the place frantically. “She’ll be fine by tomorrow,” I reassured myself as I shut them inside for the night.
The next morning I was disappointed to find Stella running around in circles with wings outspread. Attempting to escape, she rushed wildly at me repeatedly, knocking over the feed and water in the process. Clearly, her initial interest in motherhood had vanished entirely, along with her sanity. Finally, I moved out of the way and watched her dash madly back to the rest of the flock.
Gertie, on the other hand, was still setting devotedly on her eggs, but 21 days later, only two tiny pullets finally pushed their way out into the world. The pair hatched in the middle of the night, and the poor hen was exhausted from all the excitement. The next morning, I watched her fight a losing battle with sleep as her head slowly sank and her heavy eyelids closed. Suddenly, she re-awoke with a jolt, only to repeat the cycle many times over. She looked a lot like me after a short night, minus the bottomless cup of coffee attached permanently to my hand.
As I look back fondly on that first live hatching experience, I wish to share three lessons I learned. First of all, don’t build a hatching facility the likes of a hotel. Broodies are just as happy with something small and modest… like a bed ’n breakfast. Second, wear an old, holey shirt. You can borrow mine if you’d like. Last but not least, remember the old adage, “Don’t count your chickens before they hatch!”