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Greenfoot Laid a Double-yolker Today
The carefully written words on the child’s stationery marched determinedly across the faint lines on the yellowed paper. At once the woman saw the flock of Barred Rock chickens (some called them “Plymouth Rocks”) as they cackled and crowed in the small coop and wire-enclosed yard.
All through the deep depression they had faithfully kept the family in eggs and meat when so much else was scarce or non-existent. It was true that the little girl had made pets of most of the fowl, but some were, of course, her favorites. “Greenfoot” was no exception. Her father was struggling in a far-off city at a job which would hold the little family together until better times would arrive. He came home only every weekend or two and the child’s newsy letters were his cherished link to home and loved ones. He would be glad to learn that Greenfoot was living up to her reputation.
Greenfoot, however, was a klutz! She was unusually large, her feathers were not marked precisely with black and white bars as any self-respecting hen would wear. Her feet were truly green on the top, and her comb was crooked and thick. She’d never take a prize at any county fair. She was clumsy and when sitting on her clutch of eggs she had managed to break most of them and ended up with only two baby chicks. But now she was back to laying her special eggs. Nearly every week she produced at least one double-yolked egg, if indeed it was not a soft-shelled one! This was news enough to write the father along with school gossip and the local weather.
Other chickens in the flock merited some recognition. “Lucy” was the best mother of the lot and her brood of ten black and ivory fluffy balls were well cared for and followed her all around the yard.
“Katy” was the star performer. When brought into the house and perched upon the little girl's lap, the chicken would sing her heart out whenever she was stroked and patted on the rump.
“Tamey” was just what her name implied. She was the tamest of the whole flock and would squat obligingly whenever anyone approached to pick her up.
The resident rooster never got named, and it was just as well as he ended up in the kettle one cold winter day. Milk and cereal was the daughter’s supper that night. No chicken for her! For many years two beautiful curled long tail feathers were mounted on a card and pinned to the very desk where so many letters were written to the far-away parent.
Many, many years had gone by since the woman had thought about all these things. How strange that one small piece of paper, a brief letter written to her father, obviously cherished and preserved among his effects, discovered many years later, could bring back so very vividly the scenes remembered when she was just a little girl who missed her daddy and found comfort in the feathered friends.
Pauline F. Nulton
