Bush eggs: one. Nest box eggs: none. Feed hopper: one-thirty-twoth full.
The sun is shining; let’s move on from portraits, good or bad.
On examination there is really no one ‘better’ comb style over another I reckon, though I’m no world authority as I said yesterday. Ella did say that sometimes the rose combs can fill up with dirt and smell a bit cheesy. Frankly, I think I’ll stick with plain old single combs.
And I’m over the portrait now. I don’t have to have it hanging in the chicken house as a constant reminder of the duplicity of artists, so I can just forget about it and move on with my life. As I said, my gift to society will be my prodigious poultry poetry and prose, not my ability to sit still for a pointless painting.
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