Tapestry that hangs in the Great Room at Merry Mount
There once was a man named McMicken,
Who suffered abuse and a lickin’.
He feared for his life,
Then looked to his wife,
Who suggested that he was a “chicken”.
CPW
Recently I found myself in a place to make a decision about a minor medical procedure. As usual, I weighed the pros and cons of having the procedure by: 1) listening to the doctor; 2) doing on-line research about the intrusion; and 3) discussing the issue with Rett who jokingly called me a chicken. After initial indignation, I considered whether being labeled a chicken was possibly a compliment, and I offer you a bit of my discovery.
First, let me assure you that after 8 years of tending to the chicken coop in the barn at Merry Mount, I have observed and have a strong knowledge of chickens! I have watched them forage for food; develop a social “pecking order”; and run from and hide from a fox. Besides providing us with rich, delicious eggs, they have provided moments of entertainment.
But to fully appreciate the finest attributes of a chicken, I turn to Robert Frost who penned, A Blue Ribbon at Amesbury.
Such a fine pullet ought to go
All coiffured to a winter show,
And be exhibited, and win,
The answer is this one has been –
And come with all her honors home,
Her golden leg, her coral comb,
Her fluff of plumage, white as chalk,
Her style, were all the fancy’s talk.
It seems as if you must have heard.
She scored an almost perfect bird.
In her we make ourselves acquainted
With one a Sewell might have painted.
Here common with the flock again,
At home in her abiding pen,
She lingers feeding at the trough,
The last to let night drive her off.
The one who gave her ankle-band,
Her keeper, empty pail in hand,
He lingers too, averse to slight
His chores for all the wintry night.
He leans against the dusty wall,
Immured almost beyond recall,
A depth past many swinging doors
And many litter-muffled floors.
He meditates the breeder’s art.
He has a half a mind to start,
With her for Mother Eve, a race
That shall all living things displace.
‘Tis ritual with her to lay
The full six days, then rest a day;
At which rate barring broodiness
She may well score an egg success.
The gatherer can always tell
Her well-turned egg’s brown shapely shell,
As safe a vehicle of seed
As is vouchsafed to feathered breed.
No human specter at the feast
Can scant or hurry her the least.
She takes her time to take her fill.
She whets a sleepy sated bill.
She gropes across the pen alone
To peck herself a precious stone.
She waters at the patent fount
And so to roost, the last to mount.
The roost is her extent of flight,
Yet once she rises to the height,
She shoulders with a wing so strong
She makes the whole flock move along.
The night is setting in to blow.
It scours the windowpane with snow,
But barely gets from them or her
For comment a complacent chirr.
The lowly pen is yet a hold
Against the dark and wind and cold
To give a prospect to a plan
And warrant prudence in a man.
-Robert Frost
Drawings of chickens by Franklane L. Sewell
Framed painting by Sewell
Franklane L. Sewell (1866-1948) in his studio
So as I take leave of you-proud to have been called a chicken, I would be remiss if I didn't tilt my hat to the clan name McMicken.
The McMicken surname is an Anglicized form of the Gaelic Mac Miadhachàin, a patronymic name-meaning son of Miadhachàin, the root word of which is "miadhach," meaning "honorable."
CPW
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