Unlucky With Poultry

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Humor  |  House: Footsteps, yarns and little fibs
In a rural village a farmer has difficulties with his chickens.

Submitted: June 29, 2016

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Submitted: June 29, 2016

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Living some twenty-five kilometres from the supermarket is not so much of a challenge these days, because modern cars can reach there in a tick and in as much comfort as a stock standard armchair.

Back in the day, at Otepopo there was a local village store where you could buy staple food items as well as some hardware items such as nails and white paint. But fresh produce was only brought out from town once a week, and despite the urban myths, farmers did not have much ready cash to buy food. In fact many struggled because of drought, low prices, cost of materials and pasture weeds.

To provide for their families, most rural folk kept their own vegetable garden, milked a house cow and kept their own hens (chooks). This was an important community activity because there was genuine interest in breeds and the productivity of spuds, peas, cows, and chooks. Spare produce at harvest time was often taken to the church, for distribution to the poor, and of course everyone eyed everyone else’s goods creating a full-blown competition.

So when people met on the road, at the store, at church or just randomly, they discussed how their various enterprises were progressing and there was often an exchange of seeds, bulls, roosters and most usually misinformation – the old competition thing.

Two old codgers met at the mailboxes.

‘Man,’ said one to another, ‘I’ve had awful bad luck with me chickens this season.’

‘What happened?’ asked the other.

‘I set a sitting of Austrolop eggs under a bantam hen and she hatched nine little uns.’

‘Go on?’ replied the other.

‘Well that was good and well,’ the first went on ‘but that was just the start! The fool hen went and trampled on three and killed 'em!’

‘Ooo.’ said the other.

‘Yeah,’ continued the first, ‘so that left me with six of them! Then I find that five of them are blimmin’ roosters!’

‘Oh lor’.’ Said the other.

‘Well then,’ the first went on, ‘blimin’ cats started to sniff about the place, and I had me eye on a big ginger bugger! I waited on 'im with a big rock, and reckoned I had a pretty good shot so biffed it at ’im!’

‘Good on yer!’ the other enthused.

‘Not so good,’ replied the first, ‘I missed the blimin’ cat and the rock went right through the pen and killed five of the chicks!’

‘That’s awful bad luck!’ the other said smugly.

‘It's bad luck all right,’ confirmed the first, ‘the live one that’s left’s a blimmin’ rooster!’

‘Aye, that’s bad luck alright!’


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