Waiting for my ISBN

A distribution service has just been purchased for my book, The Art of Magic Words. This means I am awaiting my International Standard Book Number (my ISBN), the unique number that will allow my book to be sold in brick-and-mortar stores, as well as at online retailers like Amazon.

This is the magical creature--look, you can just see one now, peeking his head out from a repository at Wikimedia Commons:



Mine will, of course, bear my own unique ISBN.

My application for an ISBN has been sent to the ISBN Agency in the U.S., which will register GroundMark Press as a publisher and provide my ISBN. It usually takes 3 to 4 business days, I understand. When the ISBN has been assigned to my title, my book will be updated with an ISBN and a barcode can be added to my book. Once the update is complete and I am satisfied, distribution begins and the book is listed in Bowker's Books In Print, Nielsen BookData and other sources so it can be picked up by book sellers.

The PR and marketing of the book, however, is up to me.

Along those lines, I recently had an article on Witchvox published. The article, adapted from the introduction to my book, has been up 2 days so far and has had almost 1100 impressions and 6200 RSS views. In some senses those numbers are meaningless... they don't indicate unique users; nonetheless, it's encouraging, and I've actually received some positive email in response. I hadn't expected the article to go up until after The Art of Magic Words was available on Amazon; normally it takes about two months for an article to be posted from the time of submission. However, they either had very few articles in the queue at the time I submitted, or they liked it enough to approve it quickly.

I had to scramble to create a book listing on Witchvox quickly as well, so any readers would be able to find out where to buy the book (since it can't be found except in the Lulu marketplace at this point). I did that Monday. There are an unbelievable 6500 impressions on that page; surely this must be due to spiders mapping out the links on the page; it can also be due to counts generated from pictures and other things on the page that aren't necessarily connected to unique visits. My hits at the marketplace (where I can check for unique visits) aren't anywhere near as high. An additional 30 people, perhaps, have looked at the page there.

Once I receive the ISBN, I'll begin contacting the individuals on my media list to see if I can get reviews and coverage for the release. Word of mouth is nice, too, though. If you know anyone who might be interested in this book, please point them in the right direction!

My book is available for purchase!

My book, The Art of Magic Words is finally available. No one else will be as pleased by this as I am; it has been hanging over my head as something unfinished for months. The issues with the graphics we were having seem to have resolved. I'm so relieved!

Here is the "marketing" description of the book:

The Art of Magic Words explains why verse is so appropriate for casting magic: not only are sounds and rhythm conducive to achieving the right state of mind to work magic, but the meaning of the words can help to move you to another state of consciousness, a dream-state in which all is possible. "Having a spell," the author suggests, is a more accurate way to think of it than "casting a spell."

This book will be a solid addition to your occult library, and will especially appeal to you if you're interested in developing spells for your personal or for your coven's Book of Shadows. Not only are ready spells provided in a Grimoire section, but four instructional chapters show how to master the art of spell-poem composition for yourself.

Plus, because the Grimoire section of the book is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-Share Alike 3.0 License rather than a traditional copyright, with proper attribution the spells herein can be non-commercially published, republished on your Website or in your Book of Shadows, modified and published yet again in order to encourage creativity in the spell casting community.

I was also fortunate enough to get a few people to review the book; here is what a couple had to say:

"This delightful introduction to the composition of New-Age Wiccan Spell Poetry takes the reader through the whole process of making a piece of rhyme that works, and it also includes a Grimoire of spell poems by the author."
--Peter J Carroll, Past Grandmaster, Illuminates of Thanateros


"The Art of Magic Words fills an important gap in the bookshelf of the beginning liturgist, connecting the mechanics that may only be dimly remembered from school to the practice and discipline of Pagan ritual. This slim volume contains a wealth of experience from a practiced and passionate wordsmith."
--Dr. Brent Neal, Triad of Leadership, Universal Eclectic Wicca

"Rather than simply advising readers to consider composing magickal prose as part of their Craft, the author encourages personal experimentation by providing lucid, step-by-step examples of her own creative process. The extensive included Grimoire reveals lyrical verse as a powerful and elegant tool for focusing intent and achieving magickal gnosis. A rich selection of spell-poems ranging from the pragmatic to the celebratory and visionary will inspire readers to explore the techniques herein and experiment with the possibilities for themselves."
--Al Hogar, Mystic and Magus, Order of the Golden Breath

I'm awaiting my final proof copy now; once I receive it and assure myself that the pdf and book preview reflect the printing, I will purchase distribution for the book, and it will (shortly thereafter) become available on Amazon, etc. It is currently priced at $9.98, and available only through Lulu. When distribution at other booksellers begins, however, the price will go up, because Amazon and other book sellers will need their "mark up." At that time, the price will go up to $12.98 (and there will be an actual ISBN number inside, rather than an ISBN placeholder).

If anyone wants a signed copy--why anyone would is beyond me, really, but I did have someone ask about that once--let me know, because I believe I can order a copy, sign it and then send it on to you. If you live far away from me, shipping, of course, will be more or less doubled that way, but my 10 seconds to sign will naturally be free of charge.

I have seen previous proofs of the book, and they were all fine except for a few fine lines that ran through some of the graphics (and drove me crazy). Because these lines were apparent in the electronic preview, as well, I'm relatively certain that there are no such issues with the graphics at this time. However... fair warning. You'll want to weigh whether or not it's worth more to you to get the book now with less expense or to pay three dollars more and get the book after distribution has been purchased when the printing quality has been verified.

Ten Things I’ve Learned from my Chickens

1. The early bird gets the worm. The late bird steals it.

2. If someone won't get out of your way, peck them in the head.

3. Keep your eyes on the sky; others like to attack from above.

4. If all else fails, hide.

5. Stay close to the safety and comfort of home even when free-ranging.

6. The opposite sex is made up of a bunch of cocks.

7. Scratching around in the dirt sometimes turns up surprising things.

8. Keep your eggs in a safe place and defend from intruders at all costs.

9. Often long brooding over good eggs is rewarded... over bad eggs: not so much.

10. Find the highest perch so you can poop on others while simultaneously avoiding getting pooped upon.

Mad world, mad world

All around me are familiar faces
Worn out places, Worn out faces
Bright and early for the daily races
Going nowhere, Going nowhere
Their tears are filling up their glasses
No expression, No expression
Hide my head I want to drown my sorrow
No tomorrow, No tomorrow


And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
These dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles it's a very very
Mad World, Mad World


Children waiting for the day they feel good
Happy Birthday, Happy Birthday
And they feel the way that every child should
Sit and listen, Sit and listen
Went to school and I was very nervous
No one knew me, No one knew me
Hello teacher tell me whats my lesson
Look right through me, Look right through me


And I find it kind of funny, I find it kind of sad
These dreams in which I'm dying
Are the best I've ever had
I find it hard to tell you, I find it hard to take
When people run in circles it's a very very
Mad World, Mad World

Summertime, and the Livin's Easy

Where did June go?

I find I've been rather busy with the chicks, the cockerels, the goats, the cats, the budgies, the fish... and so forth. I've taken pictures, but somehow I procrastinate uploading and blogging. It's much more fun to spend time with the animals than it is to type stories about spending time with the animals. Now, though, I find I have a little time to sit at the laptop while lunch is baking: a nice venison stroganoff. Mmm.

The two Ameraucanas I purchased from StormStryder poultry as eggs are my favorite chickens. They're so friendly, they'll direct affection more or less at anyone within their line-of-sight. Most of the Faverolles, again, turned out to be cockerels--I finally ordered some sexed pullets from a commercial hatchery, which rather goes against my grain, but at least I'll be assured of some laying hens.

Out of the nine that hatched, I got the two Ameraucana pullets and one Faverolles pullet. There is also a Silkie whom I've named Sylvia. However, Silkies are almost impossible to sex, even by experienced breeders. She seems to act hennish, and her crest seems to have the right shape for a female, but many-a-person has been fooled.


She's a quiet little thing, half as big as our largest, but she doesn't seem to get picked on. Because of the unusual feathering, Silkies are unable to fly. Lily and Galatea (the two Ameraucanas) easily fly up to one's shoulder and settle for a comfortable visit.

This is Lily doing just that:


My Ameraucanas are Wheatens--that is, "Wheaten" is their color pattern. The breeder I bought from, however, breeds Blue Wheaten birds. Because of the genetics of the blue coloring, the birds can produce Wheaten, Blue Wheaten and Splash wheaten from the same pairing, so to be quite honest, I'm not sure what I have. The roosters are somewhat easier to differentiate as far as their color goes.

Lily's feathers are a light buff, with white lacing, and some of her feathers are white again in the center, as if they're double-laced. The underfluff on her back is slate grey while elsewhere it is white, and there are even some spots of grey on the ends of the feathers toward her tail, very subtle, almost a barring. She's terribly beautiful.

Her sister Galatea is lighter in color, with golden or yellow feathers on her back. All Galatea's underfluff is white, very pretty. In the photo of all the pullets together, below, you can probably see the difference in color. Lily is on the left; commanding her attention is Mathilde, the Faverolles pullet. Behind them, you can see Galatea and Sylvie. Notice the blue legs of the Ameraucanas.


Most chicken breeds have yellow or white (actually flesh colored) legs, but the Ameraucanas have this attractive blue (called "slate"). Silkies actually have black feet, to go with their black skin.

Henry--once known as Henrietta, named in a fit of wishful thinking and impatience--seems to always dribble his water down his little beard, and then get grumpy.


Mathilde isn't nearly as friendly as the other Faverolles I have, but she's is still quite lovely--and funny-looking, too, especially when she settles down and fluffs her feathers. She rather looks like an egg. Her fluffy beard nearly obscures her eyes from the front.



Jean-Jacques is getting big, and Franklin (once named Fanny) has begun to crow. Even Alan thinks the sound is cute: it sounds like a cross between and owl and a mourning dove. "Whooorrrr? Wrrrr..."

Catching up

It's been a while.

We've had life and death since last I wrote: Jazzy died. However Mojo still seems to be doing well. Carolina's milk dried up due to a mastitis infection, and for some time I was dividing my time between sleep and four hour feedings. We're past the worst of it.

The newest babies have hatched and are doing well, although we had one little girl with spraddle leg. A splint seems to have helped. She was a "peel" baby... something many people recommend against. However, she had pipped successfully, but I could see her position was wrong to be able to make it out on her own, and I chose to help. Poor little thing.



Hatching is tiring in any event.


The other chicken babies--not so young, now, perhaps--are doing well in their coop. They have caused my daughter to roll off her chair laughing as they fly to my back or the top of my head to see if there's anything interesting up there. Occasionally Fanny, always the troublemaker, will launch herself into flight and break out of her enclosure. For now, it's more of a temporary playpen until we get the electric fence hooked up.

She takes off like a rocket for no apparent reason, clearing the two-foot chicken wire and then skimming the ground in wild flight toward the apple trees for 20 or 30 good feet. Finally she comes to a halt, and--distressed to find herself so far from her companions--comes screaming back, panicked, until she can find a way back inside.

I can't say that I am fond of Wyandottes if she is a typical specimen. Bossy, noisy, willful, always picking on the other two... how much more pleasant are Jean-Jacques and Marguerite! In my darker moments, I can smell the curry...



Perhaps she senses it here. She looks a bit cowed. Really, though, I won't have a creature terrorizing my flock, be it coon, 'possum or diva.

They won't all fit in the bath, though they do try.



You see Fanny here getting ready to drive out Jean-Jacques. She drew blood. He's the rooster, for goodness sake--you'd think he'd be a bit more inclined to defend his territory, but Faverolles are simply not fighters. They're genteel. Driven out, he mutters astounded at her gall, but nothing else, really. He thinks of her as a mannerless ninny, I should guess. Marguerite, timid though she is, does try to stand beside him when Fanny is at her worst, and Fanny usually backs down, then, because Marguerite is so much larger... though I don't think marguerite has the least idea of what to do should push come to shove. In fact, Fanny is always stealing her food, and would much rather steal a goody from Marguerite than come to The Hand and get a fresh bit of her own. Poor Marguerite. She's always so bereft. It's especially sad, too, I think, because Marguerite is the one with the quickest eye, most likely to catch a tasty bug or grub to begin with... while Fanny simply waits for Marguerite to find something to steal. How I love curry.

Beautiful Marguerite:

A pleading look:


I will have to get some more Marans from MX Farms. Marguerite has such a wonderful temperament. I hope she'll lay well, too. I'm hoping to have eggs by August or September. And I have hatched new plans, as well. For more chickens... naturally. It seems to me that our Cellar house would make a wonderful chicken coop. At 12' x 20', I could probably house 6o chickens in it (although I think I'd want 20 or 25 layers at the most. But the flexibility would give me the opportunity to raise out extra chickens and choose my favorites. Here is the cellar house. What do you think?

Let There Be Goats

Carolina has had her babies--unexpectedly early. I was worried about all I might be called upon to do... in the case of a breach birth, for example, or in case of any other trouble she might have. I needn't have worried, but I wish I had been there.

She had no trouble. I fed her Sunday morning, and she ate voraciously. In fact I heard nothing from her--no disturbance at all--all day. Eowyn can raise quite a ruckus when she chooses. When I went out in the evening to feed them, Alan came with me. He was going to change the light bulb over her stall, and I was going to install the baby monitor, so I could hear her at night if I happened to be sleeping when it began.

She was standing in the middle of the stall, however, a little black lump of fur beside her.




At first, I couldn't imagine what it might be... a raccoon?!! A possum?!!! A giant rat?!!! But, no...

When I came to the realization that she had already given birth to at least one baby, I hardly knew what to do. She seemed okay, but I had no idea whether or not the little one had survived. It was, after all, early.

When checked, however, it was merely curled up and sleeping, and there was another behind Carolina that I hadn't been able to see from outside the stall... also quite alive. Both were bucks. I could have wished for at least one doe.



They are tiny, certainly smaller than Spider, our cat. One was much smaller than the other, and seemed to be chilled, unable to get his feet. I warmed him against my body until he stopped shivering, and then held him up to his mother's teat.

Now, first-time goat-mothers like Carolina can be like any other mothers. They may not know exactly what to do. They may not be prepared for these little aliens to begin sucking on portions of their anatomy--very sensitive portions, I might add. However, Carolina accepted it all with aplomb, nuzzling the little creatures maternally and daintily stepping around them when she needed to move. What a patient mama.

The chilled one, whom we called Carolina's Jazzy Star (Satchmo or Jazzy, for short) was the black one with the little galaxy of stars flecked on his coat... on on his forehead and chest, a couple on his ears, some on his tummy. He needed extra care. I went out every four hours for the first 24 to hold him up to his mother's teat to make sure he was getting enough sustenance.

However, he still didn't seem to be getting quite enough. It was as if he couldn't quite find or keep the nipple in his mouth long enough to get a full belly... so while his brother (Maestro's Sweet Mojo) was getting fat and happy and strong, Satchmo was still unsteady.

At last, I did something I did not want to have to do. I bought "milk replacer" for Satchmo and bottle fed him. I plan to feed him by bottle once or twice a day as a supplement until he can get the hang of nursing from his mama. The formula will not be as good for him by a long shot as his own mother's milk will be. However, if he's not able to get enough, for whatever reason, from her, then it's best he has something additional until he can. Luckily, Mojo will be able to keep Carolina's milk going until Jazzy can join him at the buffet.

In the meantime, I have to admit that bottle feeding has its charms. There's nothing like seeing the tiny little tail wag in greeting.




And his little face is so love-y as he waits for the bottle, it's hard to stop kissing his long enough to offer the food.



Cuddling him is also fun at this point because he hasn't quite figured out where the food comes from, so he'll try to nurse anything that's put in front of him. He's particularly fond of my chin. And when I'm done feeding him, he falls to sleep, just like a human baby might.




Unfortunately, this is when I must return him to his real mother. It really wouldn't do to teach him that he can snuggle with me in bed, which I admit is where I--like a fool--would like to take him. But it wouldn't be much fun when he's a 250 pound stinky buck, I imagine. I don't think it would even be much fun when he's a 40 pound stinky buck.

However, I've got a few more pounds and months before he starts putting on his mature nanny-killah scent, so I'll just have to enjoy the snuggling and chin-sucking now while I can.

The Countdown Begins

The eggs were delivered this morning, a day later than they should have been. The package had seen some rough handling during shipping; the box, which had been stamped "F-R-A-G-I-L-E" perhaps a hundred times, had been pierced through in one spot and dented smartly in another.

However, when I got it home and opened it, the clever breeder had double boxed the eggs and packed them quite securely. He also sent many extras, so that I actually ended with more than I ordered. He even sent some Silkie eggs, in case I wanted to try hatching them. Naturally I do. Silkies appear to be furry rather than feathered. Their feathers lack the barbicels that normally give feathers their shape, so they look rather like adorable little mops, and not very much like gallinaceous birds at all.

This photo, from Storm Stryder Poultry, where I ordered, is of a partridge Silkie--quite possibly the hen who laid the eggs now in my incubator:




Actually, Silkies are not considered very good layers because they're so often broody. Hens stop laying, of course, when they're trying to hatch their clutch of eggs... and Silkies are reputedly such good mothers that they will adopt anything... even golf balls, if eggs aren't available. I understand many people utilize Silkies to set eggs for birds that won't otherwise hatch their own eggs, or that won't do so in captivity very often--birds like Leghorns, or even quail.

What I had ordered were more Salmon Faverolles eggs--seeing as how I didn't get any pullets last time--as well as eggs of the Wheaten Ameraucana, a beautiful bird loosely similar in appearance (to my untrained eye) to the Salmon Favs, but smaller. The coloring is slightly different, and the number of toes is also different, but they also have the bearded appearaqnce that I love, and the eggs are a beautiful blue-green.

I do love the Faverolles. The friendliest bird of the three I currently have is still my Faverolles rooster, Jean-Jacques. I have to wonder if it's because I hatched him myself, unlike the other two... or if it's because I had the time to really spend and choose the friendliest of his bunch to keep... ALSO unlike the hens I have. Fanny and Marguerite are both friendly, of course, but Jean-Jacques is literally ecstatic to see me when I enter the room, and can't wait to perch on me.

Regardless, I should have all those factors working for me again with this hatch, and with all the different breeds and eggs, my incubator is colorful right now.

Here are the Faverolles eggs, much larger and darker than my last batch:




These are the Ameraucana eggs (with the three Silkie eggs):




Here is the whole incubator full:



For the hatch this time, my husband was kind enough to have purchased an automatic egg turner for me. This means I can leave the house for more than a six hour stretch at a time. I'm excited about that, but I think I will miss the personal connection with my eggs, feeling their warmth as I turn them with tentative, gentle fingers.

Animal Husbandry

Animal Husbandry is defined as "controlled cultivation, management, and production of domestic animals, including improvement of the qualities considered desirable by humans by means of breeding." (From the Britannica Concise Encyclopedia)

One wonders why they call it "husbandry." Does that refer to the practice of managing "husbands" for the animals, in the sense of breeding them? More calves, more chicks, more kids, more lambs... perhaps it does, according to the definition. But in a very real sense, I think it also refers to acting the role of "husband" to your animals.

Of course I'm not talking about what might be put humorously as the droit du seigneur. I'm referring to the near spousal sort of care one must take of them if one means to keep them healthy. For industrial farms, perhaps it is quite a different thing altogether. They are mere commodities; the goals are different. Often the goal there is only to keep the animals alive long enough to slaughter, and this by filling them full of antibiotics that thin their intestinal walls enough to allow for optimal growth in as short a time as possible. Just lovely. Of course, there are marriages like that, too.

For the small farmer it is a different matter. For example, I just spent 45 minutes in the stall this morning with my new goat, hand feeding her oats. She feels poorly and is not inclined to eat. After her trip here on Saturday, she hasn't eaten as much as she should. She's pregnant, and should be freshening on the 15th. We hope for two kids... but with a first freshener, sometimes you get only one.

Here she is, Carolina:





She's a darling. Because I appreciate her position, I find myself running to the fields for fresh handfuls of multiflora, burdock or dandelion... cutting up carrots and apples to please her dainty palate, and--yes--spending 45 minutes with her in her stall tempting her to eat racing oats since the regular goat feed, a change from the feed to which she's accustomed, affronts her goatly nature. Here, she shows me what she thinks of it:





I am a husband sent to the store for Rocky Road ice cream; I am the spouse who cooks her partner's dinner. I care for a sick family member. I hold your hair out of your face when you throw up. Didn't you think that was Animal Husbandry, too?

I know what it means.

It also meant, sadly, staying by until the end when my buck, Mathazar, was dying of listeriosis... feeding him through a syringe, cooling him with ice, brushing him, singing to him. It means not going to a party you'd love to go to because one of your animals needs you.

It means staying by the house for 21 days when you're incubating and you don't have an automatic egg turner.

How could I go somewhere, when, perhaps, Eowyn would be relying on me?





Who could resist this face?





Or this one?





Or even these butts?

Douceur de vivre

This is Fanny:




This is her breast:




She's our newest addition, a Silver Laced Wyandotte. Fanny is named after a character in Jane Austen's Mansfield Park, a young lady adopted out of a family of many many siblings and much chaos, only to find herself with rather snooty, well-to-do relatives. This fits loosely into the sort of narrative I've been creating about my snooty French chickens, although of course Austen's book was English to its core.

Just how well Fanny will be like her meek and retiring namesake I hardly dare guess... very little like, I suspect. She seems to be something of a spitfire. Smaller than the others, she is nonetheless afraid of nothing. Lifted by The Hand from a group of 29 wild siblings, transported, and plopped down into a brooder with now only two, very tame others--Jean-Jacques and Marguerite--I imagine she is feeling quite emboldened. Marguerite may be planning her escape.




The other five boys I took to their new home in Ohio--the same place I got Fanny from. Without them the brooder seems quite empty, although I still have Jean-Jacques to comfort me. He seems to enjoy his new position as sole cock of the walk.




Spider is enjoying life as much as ever.





... and frankly, the birds don't seem to mind. It is Mansfield Park, after all... or some chicken-y version of it.

Vive La Revolucion

One of the most interesting things about chickens is the pecking order, the social hierarchy of the group. It's a fairly nuanced thing--certainly as nuanced as any group of cliques in a middle or high school of your choice.

Thus far, there hadn't really been anything that interesting going on in the hierarchy. Yves was the top cock, so far as I could tell, but there wasn't really any fighting going on as there wasn't much to fight about. Their hormones shouldn't be kicking in for several more weeks; there are no preferred "higher" roosts than others, and they all have plenty of space to eat and drink at the same time.

I believe I touched off a firestorm, however.

Flashback: For a week or so, I'd been giving them oats as a treat, which they quite enjoyed. They'd gather around and eat out of my hand. My favorites would climb up and down my arm... they'd make half-contented, half-excited little peeping noises. Just darling.

I'd tried a few different things that they were meant to like, but the oats were most successful. The earthworm I brought seemed to disturb them more than anything else. They refused to touch it.

However, I'd read that they often enjoyed mealworms, so when I was in town recently, I purchased some. Perhaps it was a fatal error... the end of the monarchy.

When I lowered my hand into the brooder, they squealed and trilled like schoolgirls. It was instantaneous. they could not contain their urgency. They dove for my hand like vipers, and when they'd plucked a tasty morsel between dainty chicken lips, they ran around in tiny circles looking for a private place to eat it--a place where no other bird could snatch it away.

Indeed, the frenzy was so great that the other birds were just as likely to grab the first mealworm they saw rather than come all the way back to The Hand for one that had not been claimed, yet. And with jealous eyes they would guard their precious, squirming morsel as it bound them into the darkness.

The mealworms were gone in a matter of minutes. I had purchased 50 of them, so they got (ideally) 7 or so each. For some time after, they were a society bereft, and the best forager, which turned out to be the bright-eyed Marguerite, managed to find one that had been dropped into the litter in the chaos.

Then, silence descended again, and that feeling that overtakes one post-elation. After an hour or two they seemed to settle into their usual routine.

However, there has been a great revolution being fought today, and I can't help but wonder if it has some connection to yesterday's incident.

Yves is being challenged as top cock by another male whom I had not as yet named, but whom I now call Napoleon. On his right wing is a feather askew, which reminds me for some reason of that little lock of hair on the Emperor's forehead, as portrayed in so many portraits. Or perhaps it reminds me of his hand tucked into his jacket.

At any rate, there is no real fighting still... only the bouncing of chests together, but little Napoleon seems very determined. Determined to do what, one wonders?



Did Yves get more than his share of mealworms? Is Napoleon trying to make a

Declaration of the Rights of Chicken and of the Citizen

Approved by the National Assembly of France, 26 August 1789 (Altered)

The representatives of the French chickens, organised as a National Assembly, believing that the ignorance, neglect or contempt of the rights of chickens are the sole cause of public calamities and of the corruption of governments, have determined to set forth in a solemn declaration the natural, unalienable and sacred rights of chickens, in order that this declaration, being constantly before all the members of the social body, shall remind them continually of their rights and duties; in order that the acts of the legislative power, as well as those of the executive power, may be compared at any moment with the objects and purposes of all political institutions and may thus be more respected; and, lastly, in order that the grievances of the citizens, based hereafter upon simple and incontestable principles, shall tend to the maintenance of the constitution and redound to the happiness of all. Therefore the National Assembly recognises and proclaims, in the presence and under the auspices of Llysse, the following rights of chickens and of the citizen:

Articles:

1 Chickens are born and remain free and equal in rights. Social distinctions may be founded only upon the general good.

2 The aim of the pecking order is the preservation of the natural and imprescriptible rights of chickens. These rights are liberty, food, security and resistance to oppression.

3 The principle of all sovereignty resides essentially in the flock. No body nor individual may exercise any authority which does not proceed directly from the flock.

4 Liberty consists in the freedom to do everything which injures no one else; hence the exercise of the natural rights of each chicken has no limits except those which assure to the other members of the society the enjoyment of the same rights. These limits can only be determined by Llysse.

5 Llysse can only prohibit such actions as are hurtful to the flock. Nothing may be prevented which is not forbidden by Llysse, and no one may be forced to do anything not provided for by Llysse.

6 Llysse protects the expression of the general will or instinct. Every chicken has a right to associate personally with her. She must be the same for all, whether it protects or punishes. All citizens, being equal in the eyes of Llysse, are equally eligible to all dignities and to all public positions and occupations, according to their abilities, and without distinction except that of their virtues and talents.

7 No chicken shall be abused, manhandled or killed except in the cases and according to the forms prescribed by Llysse. Anyone soliciting, transmitting, executing, or causing to be executed, any arbitrary order, shall be punished. But any chicken shall submit without delay to Llysse, as resistance constitutes an offense.

8 Llysse shall provide for medicine only as is strictly and obviously necessary, and no one shall suffer to take it except it be inflicted in virtue of the alternative of death or long suffering.

9 As all chickens are held innocent until they shall have been declared guilty, if death shall be deemed indispensable, all harshness not essential shall be severely repressed.

10 No one shall be disquieted on account of his opinions, including his religious views, provided their manifestation does not disturb the established pecking order.

11 The free communication of ideas and opinions is one of the most precious of the rights of chickens. Every citizen may, accordingly, speak, write and print with freedom, but shall be responsible for such abuses of this freedom as shall be defined by Llysse.

12 The security of the rights of chickens and of the citizen requires a secure coop and run. This is, therefore, established for the good of all and not for the purposes of restricting movement.

13 Society has the right to require of every reigning cock an account of his administration.

16 A society in which the observance of the law is not assured, nor the separation of powers defined, has no constitution at all.

17 Since food is an inviolable and sacred right, no one shall be deprived thereof except where public necessity, legally determined, shall clearly demand it, and then only on condition that the owner shall have been previously and equitably indemnified.

Show me your Cock and Pullet

With Adelle gone, and six roosters left in my brooder, it wouldn't take a rocket scientist--or even a chicken farmer--to know I must take action if I mean to have any eggs by the end of the summer.

I've ordered a new batch of eggs, that will be shipped Monday, but of course it will be some time before they've hatched. In the meantime, the friend who will be taking my extra cockerels will be giving me one of his Silver Laced Wyandotte chicks.

I was also able to find a little gem of a place in Elizabeth, WV, called MX Farms. They do ship, but because the place is so close, I just drove down. Their website is small, just one page--not much of a presence. I more or less found them via a fluke, just surfing.

However, the farm is nicely set up, and the man is obviously very proud of his birds. He not only has Cuckoo Marans, but also Black Marans and Birchen Marans, as well as some rarer colors like Salmon (which are not yet for sale) but which he's working on producing in numbers. The eggs are dark and beautiful, and his birds are laid back and friendly.

Marans are another French breed known for the color of their dark brown eggs, eggs the color of chocolate. The Cuckoo variety, which is the variety most often available here in the US, is striped with black and white.

What a nice experience, and what a pretty little bird I got. She flapped her wings a little when I picked her up, but settled right down, and snuggled with me nearly the whole way home. She seemed antsy towards the end of the journey, so I put her in the box we'd brought, where she promptly pooped and settled. I was surprised she didn't peep or squawk or cry. Perhaps she was too scared. She did pant a little.



There was no trauma in the introduction to my boys. They looked at each other rather interestedly, and then I distracted them with food--my Favs like to eat out of my hand. Then they were fine. She explored the brooder and took a nap. Now she's just as active as the boys, and was sleeping beside them when tired, drinking, eating, playing... seems to be one of the bunch. She eats out of my hand, too. I have been told that Faverolles are particularly easy to introduce new birds to, but you never know what to believe. I'm sure it would have been different if she was a cockerel, though. I think Marans can vary widely as to temperament, but the breeder I bought from breeds for temperament, and it shows.



My new baby is very pretty--I've named her Marguerite. All black and white and barred, she'll be like the pretty little upstairs maid, as compared to the poufed and powdered and bewigged Faverolles nobility. Although, truth be told, it's not as if we spent a lot of time picking out and chasing down just the right chick. The first pullet we pulled from the brooder was the right age, seemed sweet, and I was happy to take her.

A Death in the Family

Alas. Poor little Adelle, our only pullet, has died. She stopped thriving some days ago, and never manifested any particular symptoms other than a tendency to be less active than the others. She continued to eat, drink and eliminate.

Thursday, however, she ate and drank a lot less than her usual and was particularly poorly, and I knew she was going to die. I held her, and she died in my hands. I don't believe I've ever seen life leave the eyes before, but I could mark the moment when the glitter left, and a film seemed to draw over them.

One pictures, I think, little shiny black eyes upon a field of downy pale; however the eyes of the Faverolles are a clear, bright bay with a great deal of depth. Because I had hatched her, I was her mother. She had imprinted on me, and her eyes were trained on mine to the last moments. It is foolish to think such creatures don't take comfort where they can.

Her gaze was focused and deep, and then it was dispersed and flat. It happened in a moment and she was gone.

We buried her Sunday evening beneath the apple boughs.

Musings on the babies

Eating, sleeping... eating again. More sleeping. Seems like a pretty good life.

The pecking order fascinates me, reminds me of high school. Some breeds are vicious, but the Faverolles are rather laid back, and their dominance is expressed rather in simply walking over one another for the dominant, or around for the submissive. Other breeds like Leghorns and some game birds tend to peck each other's little toes and eyes. Even Faverolles would, I suppose, were they too overcrowded.

Out of the seven baby Faverolles chicks I hatched, it turns out that six of them are actually roosters. Yes, you read that right. What typical luck. However, that means I'll simply have to order more eggs to hatch, so perhaps the news is not all so bad.

Because the Faverolles are a French breed, I'm giving them all French names. I'm still in the process of naming them all... I like to name them based on their personalities, and on what seems to fit.

Thus far we have Adelle, Jean-Jacques, Marcel and Yves.

Adelle is apparently our only pullet; she's a real beauty, and her name means noble birth. Her feathers are especially long, and I notice that she tends to hover near anyone who complains with peeps, trying to comfort him.



Marcel is the runt and had a rough time of it at first, but he's a fighter. His name is in reference to the god of war. However, Marcel is a real snuggle bunny now, probably because of all the extra attention he received early on. Smaller than the other cocks, he also seems to be pretty fearless and self-reliant... a little Napoleon.

Jean-Jacques is a romantic. Whether I intend to pick him up or not, if my hand goes into the brooder and Jean-Jacques is ready for some attention he jumps into my hand and waits to be lifted to my shoulder, where he can cuddle in my hair and philosophize about all the goings on in the brooder below from a height and a distance. He is also the first (and as yet only) little bird to use the training roost. If I don't pick him up fast enough, he tries to climb my arm, sometimes pecking at my freckles along the way. Once on my shoulder he settles nicely for a half hour or more while I read or even stroke or hold the other chicks.



Yves is the most handsome and masculine of the bunch. His down is exquisitely shiny, and he spends an inordinate amount of time preening. He walks as tall as he is able, with his head held high--a fashion plate. He has also been the first to attempt crowing, stretching his neck to its fullest extent, flapping his little wings, and singing "Yap!" He'll get better at it.



Just a few moments ago I there was quite a din coming from the brooder, and I rushed in, afraid that somehow, something had overturned or someone was hurt... perhaps someone had jumped out and was cold. But no. It was Yves.

He had apparently settled in some fresh poo, which attached itself to his gleamingly clean down. When he discovered this, he screeched as if the all the powers of darkness had overcome him, frantically trying to pluck the offending mass off and restore his dignity. The rest of the bunch panicked at his wailing and thus the ruckus. Poor Yves, such a dandy.

Welcome to Your Wire Mother

WTF???



I suppose the world is pretty damn confusing when it was once egg-shaped and rather smaller and smoother than it turns out to be. Having watched our six babies hatch, I can say without much fear of contradiction, that they hatch with a surprised expression that clearly says "WTF??!!!"

Thrashing around on a wire floor is really not as it was meant to be. They're supposed to hatch into a warm nest under a snuggly mother whose feathers will wick away the moisture of birth.

In an incubator that can't happen, however. As soon as they're dry enough not to be chilled, I whisk them into the pre-warmed brooder so they can finish drying in more relative comfort.



I think it might be nice to crochet them a little chicken mother to snuggle with, although I must say they seem to be imprinting on me nicely, and even Alan is charmed. A couple of them (when they're not sleeping) rush to jump into my hand when I reach into the brooder, and none seems particularly disturbed.



They sleep in fuzzy lumps, like fields of new dandelions, and seem to wake and rise as one to eat, drink and play.



There is one chick--the first who hatched, who is somewhat larger that the others, and he or she is somewhat more aloof. Perhaps I should say that this one is the explorer of the bunch, and the others seem to follow this one's lead.



There are two eggs left in the incubator... perhaps I still have two more chicks to come...?