When Jeri brought us these three eggs, I suddenly understood where the colors of Americana come from, those thimbleberry, tamped down shades you see in American Folk art. They come from Americuna chickens, evidently. At least, in part. And from Buffs, and — from the white kind.
So here we are, going across the street to visit chickens.
The girls are merrily going after the corn cobs, and Scooter eyes them with some suspicion. G has become very fond of the ladies; he’s taken over the position of temporary chicken wrangler when Jeri is gone.
The white chicken likes being scratched. The others like being left alone.
“Look,” Cam says to Scoot. “A friendly chicken.”
“Right,” says Scoot. “Maybe some other time.”
“No, really,” Cam says. But Scoots remains unconvinced. And I think the lady may be a little hurt by this obvious snub.
“Come here, my little poulet – Huh, huh, huh,” says G in his best French.
But the lady is frozen in indecision, charmed, but retaining some of her native skepticism.
Scooter ponders the experience.
And the very old dog has slept here on the porch in the shade through it all.
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