I quickly candled the Marans eggs this morning, and found a couple clear ones! Clear as in not fertile.
Two of the clear eggs are out of my three black copper marans eggs! I've emailed the breeder---it's a little silly. I would be able to understand broken air-sacs, or cracked shells, or something of that matter, which can easily be caused during shipping, but to have non-fertile eggs.... Typically, any hen in contact at all with a rooster will have fertile eggs, so this is a bit uncommon---especially when I bought fertile eggs! I'm hoping that the breeder will ship out some replacements free of charge, but we'll see.
Also, whilst candling the Marans, I had a quick look at my lock-down eggs. I thought I might have spotted a tiny little crack in one of the white ones (but am not sure) and wanted a closer look. I didn't move the egg, but held the flashlight down to it to look inside, and I can tell you, whatever chick is in there is tiny! Half the egg is open, and not because of the air-sac, which are normally-sized in all other eggs. This is not uncommon, I've seen it before---even in clutches hatched by brooding hens. It's just a very small little baby, which could be because it is very likely that the chick was sired by a bantam rooster, whist the mother hen is a standard.
I've set up a brooder today, just in case we get some hatches! The first three eggs are due tomorrow. I'm mildly concerned about their welfare, simply because of the large drops of temperature during the nighttime, which has been causing some slight sweating of the eggs.
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The trio of eggs in lock-down are looking fantastic so far, as well as the other three eggs from our stock, which won't be going into lock-down until next week (they're a bit spaced out). Air-sacs in all the eggs (except the Marans, I haven't candled those yet,) are normal-sized, and the incubator is holding temperature and humidity wonderfully. Hopefully we'll see some chicks by Friday!
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If you saw my previous video, you'll understand that with such a gift as I have, I must---in order to stay humble---step out of the spotlight, and allow my younger siblings some time to bask in the warmth of fame.
So here, I present, my young sister Quinn, in her...younger days, singing a song about the good ol' times, when small voices grew big, and pink footie pajamas were awesome....
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Before watching, please let me explain.
That person, that---forehead, in the video, is me. I was very young, very talented, and very misunderstood.
Not only did I have mad singin' skills, but I was also something of a prodigy in the film and theater world. This video was self-filmed, and I think possesses a lot of character.
My sister (that is, Quinn) and I often practiced (apparently, though I don't really remember this) our gifts of voice in our bedroom closet rather often. This is just one of few of my documented successes. (Stare at that word long enough, and you might believe it.)
So anyway, I was young. Talented. Misunderstood. And...extremely bored.
Enjoy.
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I candled the second duck egg, and it's clear! The thing isn't even fertile, so it got tossed today.
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The first three eggs I put in my incubator (just a refresher: they are mutt eggs from our stock) are going into lock-down tomorrow, which means that I will stop turning them so the chicks inside can position themselves and get ready for hatching...which is three days after the initial lock-down! Finally, some action! I'm quite pleased, even more so because today---after taking apart the turner, and putting it back together---I figured out that my automatic egg-turner works without all the racks in it. That means I can take some out, and leave room for the eggs in lock-down which cannot be turned, BUT the turner can keep turning the other mutt eggs, the remaining duck egg, the Marans eggs, and so forth. This is good news, because now my Mom won't have to hand-turn all the eggs while I am gone, which is bad both for the person designated to turning the eggs (it can be tricky) and for the actual eggs, because by opening the bator you release precious heat and humidity, and thus jeopardize the eggs.
So, the egg-turner has been reassembled so it is missing three racks, leaving plenty of space for the three eggs that will be going into lock-down tomorrow. Soon, I am going to be setting up a brooder with all its proper faculties, just in case a chick hatches whilst I'm at my cousin's sleepover on Friday, which is when the “green-marked” eggs are due. I've already got a baby brooder box ready, and two working brood lights; I just need to get a waterer, feeder, and some bedding, and then we'll be set!
I actually almost adopted a baby chick from the new game-hen Momma. I went out to check on them this morning, and give them more feed, and found that one of the babies (apparently a little pullet,) was being picked on! One side of her face around the eye was red, and slightly inflamed, and she was sopping wet and being completely ignored by her mother, which is unusual all the way around. Typically, game birds make fantastic mothers. So anyway, I brought the bantling inside to dry, and babied her for a good couple of hours while I did my school and read a book called Jane Eyre, which is required by my literature.
(I finished it, by the way.)
She dried off and perked up, and so then with many regrets I took the little girl back to her mother to see if the hen would take her back. She did, of course, but I kept close watch for a little while---checking on them meticulously---to make sure the little chick was getting covered during the rain, and wasn't getting picked on. So far, everything seems fine! I'm not sure what was going on earlier, but the baby has been re-accepted, and things look okay.
All other chickens are looking well, but still aren't laying worth a dang; this includes any eaten eggs, because I haven't been able to find any evidence of cracked, gnawed upon, swallowed, or otherwise devoured eggs in the past two days. There is just nothing out there.
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It is a crisp dawn. The timorous white sun of autumn peeks over distant fells, glistening off the dampened moors, and deep swampy ravines where purple thickets of bracken and heather abide. The air is clear, and sweet, scoring cool passages on your lungs as it enters and exits with each refreshing breath. A faint wind whistles quietly between shackled clusters of peasant homes, tousling lines of laundry, and whisking beneath the running feet of young children as they dart buoyantly between shadowy alleyways.
One of these children is a small boy with a pale mop of hair, and expressive green eyes which are now cast in a dubious shade as he ducks and hides behind a discarded crate, laying in wait for his advisory who trots inconspicuously past the alleyway.
With one palm on the ground in the scattered hay grains and cold dirt, he leans around the corner of the wooden box, a loose gray cotton shirt hanging over white shoulders that are thin as a clothes-hanger. Seeing nobody in sight, he exhales gratefully, letting slow to his rapidly beating heart.
But the game continues, and he ducks further into the protection of the lonely crate in attempt to stay hidden as a curious beam of sunlight reaches down the alleyway with pilfering fingers. The sun is now glossy and floating higher in the misty sky. Soon it will be time to run home and get ready for school which won't let out until late, leaving little more time to romp and play.
This boy's name is Filbert. He's the eldest child of a family of four. His younger sister is a happy, angelic presence with long golden hair that holds much more beauty than his washed-out cap of straw. Her face is round, with a delicate chin and smallish nose that pokes like a budding flower between defined, leafy hazel eyes. They say she looks like their mother, much like Filbert takes after their father, who is a traveling merchant, and is rarely home....
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An unending drizzle, which darkened the blue sky into melancholy swathes of gray, fell in incessant, light sweeps on the pasture, spurring a faint mist that thickened into a dreary fog to hide unsightly puddles and trails of muck from view. A west wind, tangled in distance tree branches, tossed up waves of autumn-changed leaves, some pale, others red, some bronzed and yellow. These leaves climbed slowly in the sky, to be whipped about in rough, rakish play by the wind and rain, later to be captured by mighty paws of fate, and perhaps locked in the clutches of distant neighborhood gutters.
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“Small, scraggly plants, are rosebushes. Their buds unfurl at dawn in glossy blooms of varying color, long as the season is permitting. You'll find that rose flowers are a common sight in summer, when the weather is hot, but they are a rarity in late November, which is humanity's word for autumn, which we discussed in the last lesson with sir Eros, when he talked of the great change trees go through at this time.
“What else do we know about roses? They are hardy, and most grow thick, red-tipped thorns along their stalks and stems, hidden by lush, serrated green leaves. We also know that their roots are tough, and capable of setting in rocky soil, assuming as it rains from time to time. Can anybody tell me what the most common color of rose flowers in our territory is?”
The stallion shifted one hoof as he proposed his question, dispelling small, dried clay pebbles across the cracked canyon side. A light, stifling breeze lisped between his ears, stirring a crumbled patch of reeds that settled along the loud, cascading river that weaved between plumb sections of brush before dumping over the ledge in an awe-striking white waterfall. Shadowing the stallion and his young pupils was a overhanging, colossal chunk of mountainside, guarding twisting vines and ghostly morning glory petals from the harsh sun which seemed to flood the whole earth from their exalted height. The canyon was a massive creation---a deep carving in the earth. It echoed with the roaring thunder of the waterfall, and the far-away, resonant screeches of wheeling curlews, and cackling ravens. It traveled far into the distance in both directions, leaving no end in sight; and it was so deep that the waterfall trickled in a thin pale ribbon until shadows swallowed it whole.
“Anybody?” the stallion prompted his students politely, creamy, thick-lashed eyes turning reflectively to each young horse. There was a quintet of adherent apprentices assembled.
A yearling colt with a coat of ivory eventually answered. His untrimmed, husky mountain warble fought and contended with the deluging waterfall to be heard as he said, “purple, sir.”
“That's right!” the equine teacher responded with stamina, “and the second most overt?”
“Red, sir.”
“Well done, Ghusis, your observations are most accurate. You've gone out scouting with the nomad party before, yes?”
The pale-furred colt bowed his head, “a few times, sir.”
“I can see no harm in it; do not be ashamed. Clearly your abscond has proved to be no violation on your studies. Perhaps you will take a friend with you next time, because two pairs of eyes are always better than one during research.”
“Thank you, sir.”
With grace the stallion nodded and continued pleasantly, “roses are very beautiful in their time of year, but can become bristling, incensing carnations during the wintertime as we rummage for graze. Watch out for their thorns, for a nasty prick in the nose could do well to ruin your day; and much worse, tear up your tongue if you should decide unwisely to taste the plant. What should do first if your tongue is cut by a thorn?”
“Remove the thorn if it is lodged in your tongue, sir,” a diminutive filly with a messy forelock of black hair piped up in a courteous manner, “and then find something to sooth the sting; maybe aloe, or honey?”
“What about in the wintertime, dear miss Iota?” the stallion blinked, a deep expression of absorbing attentiveness spread across his face, as if he wished for no greater pleasure than to hear the little female horse reply.
“Snow?” she said, with some refrain, but her teacher nodded slowly in agreement and neighed, “if it was really very bad, snow would do well to dull some of the pain and slow the bleeding by freezing the veins. It would also help clean the area.
“Snow and cold will, however, greatly imperil your tongue if it is exposed too long. You remember our lesson on frostbite? Yes? Good. Be very careful, and make sure to report any cut on your tongue---rain, snow, or sunshine---to an elder, so it can be quickly attended to if the wound becomes infected.”
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This was one of many lessons taught by Professor Vânător of the Fortuna Herd, which resides in the deep, untamed mountains of the east. A young scholar, Vânător looks over many pupils, and has enjoyed the art of teaching---and learning---all his life. As a mere colt, the chestnut stallion took kind attention to his baby brother Balaur, and taught him important things. Such as to always eat last, always listen before talking, and when you do talk---please talk low, talk slow, and don't talk too awful lot. These brotherly lessons continue even now, as the two stallions are recognized as leaders in a sort, and take charge of some students. Vânător, as the elder of the two siblings, bears more responsibility, which he handles amiably well, even as he spends a great lot of time with his best friend Ploaie, and out in the mountains doing research and making observations. For whoever said a horse (a fictional one, or not) is dumb, is dumb; for he is deeply embedded in the ocean of knowledge, and takes great care to ride any wave of information, fact or fictitious, that runs against his shore.
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