Here's this fortnight's top story as voted on our website - 18 February 2010

Lessons from a bird brained friend

Do you remember the story of the ugly duckling? When he was little he knew he was different from his brothers and sisters, and because he was so different, he thought he was ugly. It wasn’t until he grew up that he met other creatures like himself and realised that he didn’t belong to the duck family after all. He was a swan.

I once knew a bird which reminded me of that ugly duckling. When my children were small, we had a motley collection of poultry, including a hen named Sally. Every so often she went clucky and wanted to sit on her eggs. She protested angrily if we tried to take them away but we knew her eggs would never hatch. We didn’t have a rooster.

A hen which sits on eggs she didn’t lay can only be an adoptive mother, although of course she won’t know the difference. Hens will hatch out baby ducklings, mother them devotedly and then worry their hearts out when their foster babies jump into ponds and swim away.

Hence, we went in search of fertile eggs for Sally. We managed to obtain them from a farm near Foxton in the Manawatu, New Zealand. Sally could finally fulfill her maternal instincts. The farmer’s wife didn’t give us any duck eggs but she did warn us that two eggs in the batch were going to be different. "These are guinea fowl eggs," she said. "You’ll have to put them under the hen a week before the other eggs as they’ll take four weeks to hatch." Hen eggs hatch in about three weeks.

We knew nothing about guinea fowls but accepted the eggs and took them home to Sally. She had laid another egg and was firmly crouched over it. Her red beady eyes glaring furiously. Gently, we took away her useless egg and replaced it with the two guinea fowl eggs. The farmer’s wife had assured us that the hen eggs she had given us would still be good after a week and we could safely add them to those already under Sally.

This we did, and Sally sat on her eggs, getting off her nest once or twice a day as hens do, for brief feeding or toileting needs, and then spreading her feathers over the eggs and protecting them for all that they were worth. We could see that motherhood was what she was born for. About four weeks after she had started sitting on the guinea fowl eggs, and three weeks after the hen eggs had been added, the first signs of new life were heard as babies started to peck holes in the shells and emerge into their new world. Both guinea fowl eggs and most of the hen eggs hatched. Five or six fluffy little yellow chicks … and two tawny brown creatures.

Sally was a great mother. She clucked and called when she scratched up a tasty morsel. She gathered them under her wing feathers when danger threatened. The chicks grew fast, and as time went on, the fluffy babies became tame. We could pick them up easily except the guinea fowl chicks. Brought up by the same foster mother, they were like cuckoos in the nest. They scuttled away if we went near.

Sadly, a neighbour’s pet ferret caught and killed one of our guinea fowl chicks. The remaining one acquired the unflattering name of Peanut because of its small head and apparently peanut sized brain. Somehow it just wouldn’t become the pet we would have liked it to be. 


As her babies learned to fend for themselves, Sally did what all devoted hen mothers eventually do. She turned on them, and chased them away if they dared shelter under her wings. "Babyhood is over!" she seemed to be telling them. "Go and make your own way in the world." And so they did, taking their places among the other creatures in our backyard, just fitting in.

Except for Peanut. Still shy and wild, the guinea fowl developed a voice of its own – a most irritating voice. All day and every day, its open mouth emitted a noise like a rusty circular saw, quite unlike the normal clucks and squawks of our domestic hens. It drove us crazy. It was a menace to the neighbourhood too. There was no way of shutting it up.

Eventually we had to accept the truth. Somehow we had to find another home for Peanut. The bird had not endeared itself to us and the loss wasn’t going to break our hearts, but we were pleased when a wildlife park and pottery studio in the country settlement of Reikorangi offered to take it. We noticed that they already had a flock of guinea fowl. They seemed to keep to themselves, roaming the back paddocks and along the river bank without annoying anyone at all. The owners put our lone guinea fowl in an outsized coop in the middle of a paddock and we watched as their own guinea fowl flock swooped in to inspect the new arrival. They were wildly curious and we hoped that they were welcoming our bird. Peanut just looked out blankly through the wires and continued its circular saw imitation. We left for home and hoped all would be well.

We learnt something at Reikorangi - Peanut was a female guinea fowl. The continual noise making was not typical, we were told. Guinea fowl generally made a noise only if threatened by danger. These birds could be as good as having guard dogs around.

We returned to Reikorangi a week or so later to find Peanut out of her coop. She was close to the main buildings, pottering around with the mixed assortment of domestic hens and roosters that had free range near the house. Peanut was with the type of birds she had grown up with and we could hear her rasping saw-toothed voice all over the farm.

We went back to see her several times, and each time she was, with the birds she knew best. Determined to stay with them but somewhat uneasy, still on the outer fringes, a stranger among them, new kid in the playground, and the horrible noise continued. We were afraid that the owners would be tired of listening to her, since the coop was so close to the house, but they assured us she had not outstayed her welcome. She could stay.

It was several months before we went to Reikorangi again. This time the hens and roosters were scratching around in the dust as usual but there was no sign of Peanut. They had got tired of her at last, or maybe another bird had killed her, I thought. I was sad but that’s life. "I see that Peanut is gone," I said. Wilf the owner, just laughed and took me over to where we could see the paddocks beside the river. "Look over there," he said. "Your guinea fowl is with the rest of the flock now. She made up her mind that, that is where she belongs." I went to have a look but couldn’t tell Peanut from the others. Her relentless saw voice would have told me which one was her, but she had given up that noise. Now she was just part of the flock, content to roam around with them. Peaceful and quiet.

I didn’t learn how it had happened. Did the other guinea fowls persuade her that she was one of them, or did she find her own way to them? However it happened, Peanut had found her own kind at last. I never saw her again after that.

It occurred to me that Peanut’s horrible call had been her way of announcing that she knew she was different but she didn’t know who or what she was. She stopped the saw sounding voice only when she finally found and accepted her true family. Like the ugly duckling, she grew up knowing she was different. She knew that she was not an ordinary chick but she had not met others like herself.

I believe her story has a lot to teach us. That nature may be stronger than nurture. That peace will come when you find your true identity. For surely there are people who grow up feeling out of kilter with those around them. Maybe they will be encouraged to keep searching, for one day they will find where they belong. 


True story by  Patricia Reesby of New Zealand

From the SMARTER than JACK  team

 We hope you have enjoyed reading the second fortnightly story for 2010 as much as we did. For more wonderful edited true stories, go to 'Our books' of www.smarterthanjack.com