Read Online Unusual Chickens for the Exceptional Poultry Farmer by Kelly Jones - Free Book Online
Authors: Kelly Jones
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and you know I don’t notice everything around me when I’m reading a good book, so I didn’t see the black streak arrive. All I know is that I looked up at the end of the chapter, and three chickens were eating sunflower seeds right in front of me.
The black streak was a chicken, all right, but it was the weirdest-looking chicken I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t much bigger than Henrietta, but it was black, with a little red comb, and its legs and feet were covered in feathers all the way to the ground, like big stompy boots. All its feathers were weird too—they twisted in every direction, like they’d been blown around in the wind.
I didn’t have very long to examine it, though. As soon as it saw me look up, it took off running.
There was no point chasing it, no matter how worried I was about hawk-chickens and people who know a lot about chickens trying to catch it. It’s way faster than I am. So I started reading again.
The second time, I saw it run out of the woods, screech to a halt, and start eating, just like that roadrunner in the cartoons. I tried to pretend it wasn’t there. It had a drink of water. Then it had some more sunflower seeds. Then it got too close to Henrietta, and she glared at it. It floated a few inches off the ground, its feathery boots moving fast, just out of reach of the sunflower seeds. I wished I could tell Henrietta to put it in the crate, but she’s not exactly a trained superchicken. Henrietta went back to eating her seeds, and as she stopped glaring at it, the black streak chicken floated gently down. It looked at her for a minute, then moved off a bit and started eating seeds again.
I hope it’s still there when I go check on them after dinner. I can’t exactly keep it from running off, but maybe it will remember this is its home. At least I got to see what it looks like.
Te quiero,
Soficita
Diminutive height, black plumage with a distinctive windblown look, feathered legs and feet. Small wings and tail. Small red single comb, red earlobes.
Small light-brown eggs, infrequent layer. Friendly and inquisitive when hand-raised.
June 23, 2014
Mr. James Brown
Wherever you are now
Dear Great-Uncle Jim,
I guess it’s a good thing I like unusual chickens, because they keep turning up. It’s really too bad you’re dead, because I have an awful lot of questions for you.
You already know Henrietta came to live with me, and a chameleon chicken turned up too, and I think the black streak chicken has decided to stay. (I might as well name her Roadrunner, since I already think of her that way.) Except, you know, I haven’t told my parents about the new ones yet.
Well, when I came inside this afternoon, Dad was studying your antique phone (you know, the weird black one on the wall) like he was about to take it apart. Maybe he got that from you. Things don’t always go back together in quite the same way when Dad’s worked on them for a while, so normally I’d be a little nervous, but I don’t have any friends here to call, so I guess he can go for it if he wants to.
“Sophie, Gregory at the post office called for you.” He handed me a slip of paper.
My stomach felt funny. I like Gregory, but why would he call me when he’ll be delivering the mail tomorrow anyway? I meet him every day at the mailbox, since I can see him driving up from the barn window. Usually good news can wait, and bad news can’t. I looked at the number for a long time. Then I looked at the really old phone on the wall. “Dad, how do you dial this thing?”
Dad told me to put the cone-on-a-string part up to my ear and just talk really loudly at the cone part stuck onto the phone on the wall. He got me a stool so my mouth would be at the right height, and I stuck my fingers in the holes and moved the dial around. Gregory picked up right away.
“Hello, is this Gregory?” I asked. “This is Sophie Brown.”
“Hello, Sophie,” Gregory said. “I think I found another one of Jim Brown’s chickens
The black streak was a chicken, all right, but it was the weirdest-looking chicken I’ve ever seen. It wasn’t much bigger than Henrietta, but it was black, with a little red comb, and its legs and feet were covered in feathers all the way to the ground, like big stompy boots. All its feathers were weird too—they twisted in every direction, like they’d been blown around in the wind.
I didn’t have very long to examine it, though. As soon as it saw me look up, it took off running.
There was no point chasing it, no matter how worried I was about hawk-chickens and people who know a lot about chickens trying to catch it. It’s way faster than I am. So I started reading again.
The second time, I saw it run out of the woods, screech to a halt, and start eating, just like that roadrunner in the cartoons. I tried to pretend it wasn’t there. It had a drink of water. Then it had some more sunflower seeds. Then it got too close to Henrietta, and she glared at it. It floated a few inches off the ground, its feathery boots moving fast, just out of reach of the sunflower seeds. I wished I could tell Henrietta to put it in the crate, but she’s not exactly a trained superchicken. Henrietta went back to eating her seeds, and as she stopped glaring at it, the black streak chicken floated gently down. It looked at her for a minute, then moved off a bit and started eating seeds again.
I hope it’s still there when I go check on them after dinner. I can’t exactly keep it from running off, but maybe it will remember this is its home. At least I got to see what it looks like.
Te quiero,
Soficita
Diminutive height, black plumage with a distinctive windblown look, feathered legs and feet. Small wings and tail. Small red single comb, red earlobes.
Small light-brown eggs, infrequent layer. Friendly and inquisitive when hand-raised.
June 23, 2014
Mr. James Brown
Wherever you are now
Dear Great-Uncle Jim,
I guess it’s a good thing I like unusual chickens, because they keep turning up. It’s really too bad you’re dead, because I have an awful lot of questions for you.
You already know Henrietta came to live with me, and a chameleon chicken turned up too, and I think the black streak chicken has decided to stay. (I might as well name her Roadrunner, since I already think of her that way.) Except, you know, I haven’t told my parents about the new ones yet.
Well, when I came inside this afternoon, Dad was studying your antique phone (you know, the weird black one on the wall) like he was about to take it apart. Maybe he got that from you. Things don’t always go back together in quite the same way when Dad’s worked on them for a while, so normally I’d be a little nervous, but I don’t have any friends here to call, so I guess he can go for it if he wants to.
“Sophie, Gregory at the post office called for you.” He handed me a slip of paper.
My stomach felt funny. I like Gregory, but why would he call me when he’ll be delivering the mail tomorrow anyway? I meet him every day at the mailbox, since I can see him driving up from the barn window. Usually good news can wait, and bad news can’t. I looked at the number for a long time. Then I looked at the really old phone on the wall. “Dad, how do you dial this thing?”
Dad told me to put the cone-on-a-string part up to my ear and just talk really loudly at the cone part stuck onto the phone on the wall. He got me a stool so my mouth would be at the right height, and I stuck my fingers in the holes and moved the dial around. Gregory picked up right away.
“Hello, is this Gregory?” I asked. “This is Sophie Brown.”
“Hello, Sophie,” Gregory said. “I think I found another one of Jim Brown’s chickens
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