SORROW IN THE SPRINGTIME

“Don’t you s’pose it’s about time for me to water the baby chicks?” Jenny asked.

“Yes, if you want to,” replied Mother. “There’s the pail, behind the stove.”

There were always baby chicks in April and May. Every year Jenny and Margaret thrilled to the miracle of the hatching eggs. Mother would tell them when the first egg was “pipped.” They would run to the brooder house and gently lift the hen from the nest, who complained at being disturbed, but stayed at her post. They would see the chipped place in the egg, where they might see just a little bit of the golden chick. During the day, it would peck open the shell all the way around, and step out weak and wet, but in a short time it would be fluffy and lively.

This year Jenny was old enough to help care for the chicks herself. They would soon be separated from the hens and put into large coops, which had once served as hog houses. How proud she felt as she carried the gallon syrup pail full of water. She had first filled the pail from the cistern. The handle of the pail cut into her hand as she carried it, and she had to stop and rest often. Some of the water slopped over the pail and onto the ground. Sometimes she had to make several trips to the cistern. She hummed a little tune to herself as she walked along. Springtime on the farm was such a happy busy time. Jenny opened the screen door of the baby chick house and carefully closed it behind her, so the chicks could not get out.

“Chick chick chickee,” she crooned in a high voice. The baby chicks crowded close around her and went, “Cheep, cheep,” loudly. Jenny looked at the many round heads and bright eyes. She gently placed one downy chick in the palm of her hand. She noticed that its orange feet and legs were not much bigger than toothpicks. She emptied what was left in the muddy water pans and cleaned them with a stick until they shone like new. An upside-down jar gradually fed the water into the pans. She refilled them with cool fresh water and watched in satisfaction as the chicks eagerly dipped their little bills into the cool clean water and tipped back their little heads to let the water run down their throats. They all drank exactly alike.

Jenny trilled her tongue in imitation of the sound the mother hen makes when danger is near. Immediately the chicks became perfectly quiet and froze in their tracks, moving not an inch. Jenny thought they were wonderfully smart to know enough to obey their mother like that. It was better than most boys and girls would do.

As Jenny opened the door to go, she saw that one of the chicks was caught by the neck in the hinge of the door. She picked it up. It was still limp and warm, but its eyes were closed and the toothpick feet were curled under. She knew that it was dead. She must have done it when she closed the screen door behind her. She felt big and clumsy. Now the little bird would cheep no more, and it was all her fault. Jenny turned and ran blindly to the house, sobbing from the depths of her soul.

“Mother,” she wailed, “I did something terrible.” Between sobs, she had the difficult task of telling what had happened. Mother and Margaret went with her to the chick house to see if it were so.

“Poor little fellow,” said Mother, “yes, he’s dead all right. Neck’s broken.”

Jenny cried harder than ever. It was a bitter moment in her life.

“There now,” Mother comforted, “you couldn’t help it. I’ve done things like this myself. That’s just the way it goes.”

Margaret was very sorry about it too. She remembered when she had smashed her pet chick “Blackie,” when she was helping him hunt for worms and bugs and had overturned a heavy log on him. She said maybe Jenny wouldn’t feel so bad if they gave him a nice funeral. She ran to the house and brought back a match box and some pretty pink paper, the paper in which the firecrackers had been wrapped last summer. Mother got the spade and dug a hole in the ground by the mulberry bush just east of the potato patch. Margaret wrapped the little chick in the paper and placed it in the match box and slid the lid shut and placed it in the ground and Mother covered it with dirt. Then Margaret tilted back her head and sang, “Precious Jewels,” just as the ladies had done at little Twila’s funeral.

On the way back to the house, Margaret exclaimed, “Look! The currant bushes are blooming. Come on. We’ll go pick some,” and the thought of picking the fragrant yellow blossoms eased the ache
in Jenny’s broken heart.