Nobody but us chickens

Apparently, chickens arrive by U.S. Postal service, early in the morning, in a cardboard box marked "chickens" in case the peeping doesn't clue you in.  They arrived on Thursday, but we'd discovered that the brooder box Lionel had built (even though he built it to spec) could not contain the enthusiasm of the heat lamp, which blasted out 120 degrees before melting the thermometer.  We were aiming for a balmy 95.  Modifications were needed, or a smaller lightbulb.  On Saturday we hunted around for materials to raise the light and also, incidentally, be fireproof, when we came upon a bunch of old New Hampshire License plates.

Everything we build, no matter how originally gorgeous, must eventually have the Swamp Yankee trademark.  Laughing, we plastered license plates around the new raised platform, making what looks less like a chicken brooder and more like a chicken roaster complete with chimney.

We went to pick up our new chicks at our neighbor's on Saturday, who had agreed to hold ours along with his until we got the light straightened out.  They weren't around.  After a bit of shuffling about and then getting followed by two horses we decided to come back.  So yesterday we finally picked up our 25 Cornish Rock chicks, peep peep peeping in the car.

Last night was their first night in the new brooder.  If the cold, the wind, the dog, or random predators didn't get them, we're on our way to having us some mighty fine Kentucky Fried Chicken in eight weeks time.