Whether a baby is biological or not, when someone decides to become a mother, the instincts appear to be the same...this goes for all animals, the human kind or hens.

‘Big Baby’ is the name we gave to a Buff Orpington hen that came to us 7 years ago. She had the sweetest nature of any hen I have ever seen. Every year she would go broody and sit on her unfertilised egg in the hope that 21 days later, she would produce a baby of her own. But the years passed and it never seemed the right time for us to have young chicks at our home for waifs and strays. Then last year, when she became ‘old’ all of a sudden, she still sat on her egg and waited....and waited...shouting at us if we attempted to take her egg away. It was painful to watch. So my dear, unassuming husband, who is very clever, had a plan. We put another home within the usual hens home and went in search of a chick to adopt.

Twilight was just 1 day old when we slipped her under ‘Big Baby’ after dark. The following morning we anxiously peeped in the coop to see the most wonderful sight..... and I cried! The picture says it all. Big Baby carried Twilight around on her back until she was too big. She was like a young hen all over again. Her dream had come true, and I’m so happy we didn’t let the time snatchers take her dream away.

Just like Humpty Dumpty, many of us will fall now and again...it's the getting back up that can be a bit tricky. I don't necessarily mean fall off or over something! One can fall to pieces with some problem or another. Somehow, we find the strength to get back up again....quite often, with the help of friends and family.

We have had many kinds of animals in our home for waifs and strays and I have learned so much from them. They sometimes fall, and when they do, they either seem to rally around one and other or they sit quietly until they feel strong enough to get up again. In many ways, they are like humans...they get strength from other animals who appear to encourage them.

Mocha, our house hen, has fallen many times and many times she has picked herself up and dusted herself down....but today was different. Today, Mocha couldn't pick herself back up, so I picked her up instead. I carried her out to the garden and took her down to the pond where we sat and watched the other hens scratching around. They saw her and gathered around us. Mocha died shortly afterwards, in my arms....she was 7 years old.

I will always remember Mocha for her strength and determination, even when she was very old. Goodnight my dear friend!

The poor hens, every day they race out from their coop straight into the fallen sky....well that's how it seems with the endless rain. Thankfully, we do have an indoor area for them, but they love nothing more than rooting around the garden and scratching at the edge of the pond.

Over on the 'Small Tales' page, I've started a story from the hen’s point of view, of life at our home for waifs and strays. Her name is Sandwich! If you look at the picture, that's exactly what she's like.....trying to protect her egg to the very last or trying to squash it so no-one else can have it. She is such a character, they all are and they make wonderful companions.

Today, I would just like to tell you about a very funny thing that happened. A neighbour stopped to talk to me and it was quite obvious she had something delightful to say.

'I couldn't believe my ears,' she began, and covered her cheeks with her hands, 'after all the years I've known him (my dear unassuming husband) he's never really spoken to me, so you can imagine my surprise,' her eyes widened and her face reddened. Before I move on, I had better inform you, that my dear, unassuming husband is a quiet man and the kindest person I have ever met. He is also very clever.

'What surprise?' I asked curiously.

'I was the other side of the hedge,' she continued, 'when I heard him call out to me,' she put her hand over her mouth and shook her head.

'What did he say?' I was not quite sure where this conversation was going.

'He said, good morning my lovely girl, how are you today. Careful as you go, it's a bit slippery over there!'

'He did?' I said.

'He did,' she nodded her head, her face bright red. 'There was no-one else around so I knew it was me he was talking to, so I shouted good morning back and pocked my head through the hedge. '

'And?' I said, trying not to laugh.

'It was your husband,' she said almost accusingly, 'he was talking to a hen!’

It’s my guess that my dear, unassuming husband was more embarrassed than my neighbour.

Driving through our village recently, I saw a sheep eating the grass on the other side of the hedge and with great difficulty. It reminded me of the day I ran away.

     As a child, I lived with my crazy family on another planet. My father (a mad professor type of man and lover of poetry and a great musician) often carried out his wild experiments inside our home. Many times we almost lost our house, let alone our lives, when an experiment went horribly wrong. It was for this reason alone, I decided to run away. I was just six years old.

     With my life’s saving securely locked in my brown plastic piggy bank ad tucked under my arm, I left! I didn’t want to leave my kittens behind but they wouldn’t stay in the bag I put them in so I said a tearful goodbye. At the end of the garden, I met my father. He looked at me curiously.

     ‘Are you off on an adventure?’ he asked, eyeing up my small bag and my piggybank. Everything was an adventure to my father, even a trip to the local shop. I nodded, trying not to look at him. To my surprise, he opened the gate for me.

     ‘Don’t be away too long,’ he said calmly, ‘I will miss you!’

     I remember quite well, the strange feeling of looking back over my shoulder to see him waving to me. The most important person in the world was letting me go.

     ‘Just one thing,’ he shouted, ‘the grass isn’t always greener on the other side!’

     I stopped and thought about what he said. It didn’t make sense.

     ‘What grass?’ I shouted back.

     ‘Life,’ he replied.

     Grass! Life! Even at that young age I was curious about everything so I turned and walked back. I looked up at my father on the other side of the gate. ‘What grass?’ I said quietly.

     My father opened the gate and knelt down in front of me. ‘The same grass in our garden as the grass you are now standing on outside it.’

     I remember looking at the grass. The grass in our garden was almost gone, chewed up by our hens, whereas, the grass I was standing on was thick and green.

     ‘You see,’ he said, ‘It’s what you do with that grass that matters. If you let it go without tending to it, then it won’t flourish. The grass you are standing on is nurtured by the community and so it thrives.’ He closed the gate and together we stood and looked at our garden. It needed attention, even I could see that.

     ‘I guess we need to attend to a few things,’ said my father. ‘We shall start today and watch our own grass flourish and not the grass on the other side.’

     ‘And the house too?’ I asked.

     We were both smiling as we walked into the small wooden hut we called home. The smell of burning (another gone wrong experiment) still pervaded through the air but that didn’t matter anymore, what mattered was that my father took me home to where the grass was greener.

     I had forgotten all about that story until I saw the sheep today. Thank you sheep! Thank you dad, for all the wise things you taught me. They didn't make sence at the time but they certaingly do now!