The Biddy Hen by Lucille Hedges

In the thirties life was simple, and Henry Jones liked it that way. Granted, sometimes it did get a little interesting, but then, he was Mrs. Peabody’s neighbor. That should explain it. Yes, Henry’s the fellow with the goats—and chickens and a chubby piglet named Dolly. But he had something else few farmers had. Henry Jones had a biddy hen.

     Now I’m figurin’ you’re probably gonna ask just what a biddy hen is, so I’ll just launch right into the story.

     My Dad was a great one for presenting me with critters. That’s how I ended up with mommy and daddy ducks. I named them Dilly and Dally, and they dilly-dallied around like duckies do.

     Well, not quite.

     These ducks were Peking ducks, the big white ones, which most farmers raised expecting them to arrive on a dinner table nicely browned.  But after many generations of short life spans consisting of farm to oven, Peking ducks on Long Island had no idea what raising a family was all about. And our ducks? Well, there they were on our little farm. They weren’t headed for the kitchen, so they just did what duckies do.

     Some things nature always remembers. Now we had fertilized eggs.

However, Dad was not content to simply breakfast on eggs, fertilized or otherwise. Put off by the casual way the eggs were abandoned by Mama, he figured Dilly had dallied long enough.

  Dad was about to change that.

  A sandy edge bordered the watering hole which was home to several large goldfish. (Last year’s birthday present.) A mother rabbit lived in a warren she’d dug in the ground not far from the water’s edge. Swimming and preening at our poolside playground was a natural thing for most of our critters and their kiddies to enjoy. However, it appeared that raising kiddies had not been on Dilly and Dally’s agenda.

Now, my father was a man of action. When he wanted something, he usually got it. And for reasons, known only unto him, he wanted a duck family as part of our barnyard collection. After a bit of careful contemplation, he picked up the phone and gave his friend Henry Jones a call. Henry would know what should be done. After all, Henry was a farmer.

“Whyn’t ya stop by?” Henry said. “We’ll work on a solution to your egg problem.” 

Dad accepted the invitation.

“So your duck won’t sit on her eggs, huh?” Henry greeted him with a chuckle. “Well, that’s not a big problem. When that happens with my chicks, I just turn that job over to my biddy hen.”

“Biddy hen?”

“Yeah she’s an old biddy that long ago stopped layin’ eggs. Never lost her motherly instincts, though. She’ll sit on ‘em and hatch ‘em better ’n an incubator. Anyway, can’t afford one of them fancy things. And that sweet ol’ hen, she just loves hatchin’ babies.”

     “That’s fine. Perhaps I can rent her for a month or so. I need to get these eggs producing ducklings.” Dad was always direct, especially when he wanted something. Tact was never his forte.

      But Henry seemed offended. “Rent her! You want me to rent out my biddy? Now why would I wanna do that?”

     Dad reached in his pocket and pulled out his well-stocked wallet. “It should be obvious. I’m looking to raise some ducklings. I want to hire your hen to sit on the eggs.” To my dad all things were possible if you had enough money. And his vision of a duck family was to be no exception.

     “Well bring ‘em on over. You’ll have your family in about a month’s time.”

     “You’re not understanding. I want them hatched on our farm. I want them to know where they live. I don’t want them wandering—or maybe flying off.”

     “I get your point.” Henry said, “But that’s a long time to be without my biddy. Not that I’m planning on raisin’ any more chicks this summer or anythin’ but dang, that’s kinda stretchin’ things.” He shoved his hands deep in his pockets, dug at the dirt with his boot for a lo-o-o-ng moment, then looked up at Dad. “How much ya offerin’ fer her services?”

      “Name your price.”

      After a bit of dickering the deal was done.

     Ms. Biddy Hen made chirrupy noises, poked at her bedding and settled on the front seat for the ride.  Dad drove home, triumphant, with his feathered companion installed in a comfortable straw-lined box on the seat next to him.

     Dad decided that the far corner of the sandy area by the little pond would be a good place for the duckling family. Ms. Biddy apparently approved and settled into the sheltered area under the large spruce trees.

      Our feathered incubator went right to work. As each egg was brought to her she tucked it carefully under her ample bosom. It was almost a daily occurrence for the first week or so.  After Biddy had hidden away a full clutch, my father returned to his proper one-egg-a-day breakfast

     Ms. Biddy proved to be the mother extraordinaire. She fussed and turned and sat, and rose and rearranged again—and again. All the while she chirruped at her charges as if they could hear her. Perhaps they could.

     As the days rolled by, the little lady endeared herself to us with her tidy and solicitous ways. But Ms. Biddy was never far from her family. On this particular morning she spotted a piece of shell beside the nested eggs—then another and another. She pecked at the pieces and pushed them around with her beak. Satisfied her charges were doing what chicks were meant to do, she returned to tidying.

     One by one the chicks freed themselves from their shells. It took only moments for the siblings to scatter across the sand like windblown leaves. And then they spotted it. Water! It called to them from ancestral instincts born into their tiny ducky bodies. A flotilla of ducklings launched themselves into the pond amid a chorus of cheeps and chirrups as Dad and I arrived.

     Amid all these inaugural inundations there stood Biddy, distraught to the point of madness, flapping her wings wildly—squawking with all her motherly might. Her babies in the water? Oh NO! This could not happen!

     “Oh my God! She’s going to have a heart attack.” Dad sent me racing for her straw-lined travel box. “She’s got to go back to Henry’s place before she expires. I hesitate to think what Henry would do if I returned a dead hen to him. Especially his biddy.”   

     I brought a large towel and dropped it over the hyperventilating hen. Movement stopped. I pulled the towel together around her and wrapped Ms. Biddy carefully for her return home. “I hope familiar surroundings will prove salutary.” Dad said.

     Ms. Biddy was still a bit flustered as Dad tucked her under one arm, her bedding under the other and carried her to Henry’s door. A displaced feather or two clung to the toweling as dad handed her to Henry.

     “There you go Biddy, you’re home.” Dad said and produced the promised cash-filled envelope.

     Henry grinned as he took Biddy in his arms and closed the gate behind him. He looked down at her, smoothed her feathers with his hand and said, “Ya done good, ya sweet ol’ biddy. Think I’ll buy us a brooder with yer earnin’s.

     The following year Dad bought a pair of turtles for my birthday.