Here on our little farm, Rhode Island Red chicks, just days old, are developing beautiful stripes on their tiny wings. Between their frequent short naps, they scratch for bugs in the grass and peck at our toes. We hope they will be laying eggs by Thanksgiving. Our grown hens, who live in the woods with their roosters, spend their days eating grass, scratching for bugs, and watching for us to bring them scraps from the garden and orchard. They croon softly to each other as they move slowly from cucumbers to tomatoes to apples, pecking and scratching and savoring their reward. These are happy hens, content and comfortable in their woodland home. Each hen is an individual whose eggs have distinctive characteristics: some are oblong, others round; some have speckles, others have stripes; some have wrinkles, others have bumps. At an industrial poultry house, the hens are stuffed tightly into cages that are stacked one atop the other; and, under tremendous stress, they must lay perfectly uniform eggs or die. Their frantic clucking is nearly deafening. As we pause to listen to our hens rustling freely through the leaves, clucking quietly, we know without a doubt that this is the best way to farm. And we are glad to share the fruits of our labor, and of theirs, with you.
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| My, what big feet you have! |
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| Cool, clear water for our cool, red chicks. |
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| The Greene Acre is the place for me. |
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