When the demand for mulberry
leaves started to outstrip the supply, I not only began
freezing installments for my silkworm
taste test, I also opted to toss a few tender morsels to our
broody
hen’s chicks.  The chickens were so receptive that I
gave them a second helping, then a third…then started worrying
that I’d accidentally use up my silkworm breeding stock. 
Time to set aside 20 breeders to perpetuate the species.



If I’d been smart, I
would have taken away the
leaf covered in tiny silkworms at the end of the
caterpillars’ first day of life, then kept the silkworms that
hatched the next day in a separate bin.  Since silkworms are
on a strict timeline, I don’t want to mix the two (or possibly
three) hatches in my breeding bin since, presumably, those
individuals a few days younger will pop out of their cocoons a few
days later and will miss the mating frenzy.

Luckily, an
understanding of silkworm biology helped make up for that
beginner’s oversight.  By selecting breeding stock from the
biggest silkworms on day 19, it was relatively easy to pick out
those that had molted for their fourth time from those who hadn’t
yet made the shift.  The latter were mostly preparing for
their molt by sitting still with their heads raised, like the
silkworm in the center of the photo above.  (This is a subtly
different posture from silkworms reaching up into the air for a
new leaf, distinguished by the “sleeping” caterpillars’
stillness.)  I tossed the biggest silkworms onto fresh
mulberry leaves in a smaller bin, waited a few minutes for them to
settle in, then took out all the ones who were sitting still
instead of gnawing on new leaves.

Now our breeding stock is safely segregated, so
I don’t have to worry about accidentally feeding our best
specimens to the chickens.  The next step is to add
structures for them to spin cocoons inside, then all will be
still until the hatch.

Our chicken waterer is the POOP-free
solution to a filthy homestead problem.

I thought I was so
lucky to get bonus chicks when a
missing hen turned up with eight babies in the barn, but this has actually
turned out to be one of our most traumatic hatches ever. 
When I posted last, one
chick had been eaten by a snake and I was pondering whether to try to move
the hen to a safer location.  A few days later, the hen
stopped my vacillation in its tracks when she decided to move the
chicks herself.  (There were only six chicks left by that
point, which may be what spurred the move.)



Unfortunately, this
mother hen seems to have no instinct for what is a safe spot to
raise her offspring.  Her new location was under a few pieces
of plastic trellis leaned against the outside of the barn. 
That seemed so patently unsafe that Mark and I decided it was time
to move them ourselves.



Easier said than
done!  Grabbing the hen was simple once she settled down for
the evening, but the chicks exploded out in all directions. 
Trying to catch six mouse-sized chicks in the barn proved
impossible, so we had to let the hen go to gather them back up
herself.

Then things got
worse.  The hen lost three babies overnight, leaving her with
only three, and she also decided it was time to take them out for
strolls into the garden to peck at my ripe strawberries.  Bad
chickens!  Mark helped me move one of our old chicken
tractors close to the barn, and I easily tricked the hen and
chicks inside.  (Silkworms
make great training tools — after just three feedings, the hen
now comes when I call.)  However, she hated being cooped up
so much that she battered her way back out after I closed the
door, and the chicks followed.



It seems that each
broody hen we’ve dealt with so far has had a major weakness. 
Our cochin
was not only mean, she couldn’t seem to incubate the eggs very
well so we only got a single chick.  This marans
is kinder and did a great job hatching her eggs, but she can’t
seem to keep them alive and won’t stay within bounds where we can
take care of chick safety.  Suddenly, the tried-and-true
incubator is looking better and better.