Our Rhode Island Red chickens laid brown eggs, and my parents swore that they were better for you than white eggs. Every morning we would collect the eggs from the nests in our hen house.
Dad informed me that she was now a setting hen, and she wanted to have baby chicks. From one of our drawers in the kitchen, he removed a wooden egg. It was smooth, the size of a real egg, and Dad said that this was to satisfy and trick our setting hen.
I followed Dad out to our chicken coop and watched him place the wooden egg under our mother hen. Dad said. “We will allow her to sit on this egg for a few days and she will think she is becoming a mother.”
Dad gave my brother the new job of learning to kill the chickens. One day armed with an axe and a galvanized bucket I followed my brother out to the chicken yard. He selected the fattest rooster.