

The Indiana Homestead where Charles Weeks spent his boyhood 



Egg Farming in California 



CHAPTER I. 



Boyhood Days 



MY earliest recollections are of the hens my mother kept on the old 

 farm in Indiana. Well do I remember the medley of colors and 

 varieties in our flock of barnyard fowl. I played among them and 

 always had my pets. I call to mind one old black hen that to my 

 childish mind seemed almost human. My childish fancy made me a 

 chicken and I played chicken until the hens themselves looked upon 

 me as one of them. How often have I made a nest and sat on it like 

 biddy until my youthful patience was exhausted. Why, I even could 

 understand hen language and talk to them with as much understanding 

 as they could talk to each other. When I clucked the whole flock 

 would come running for the dainty morsel without hesitation. Hen 

 nature is very interesting to a boy and well I knew all the moods and 

 habits of biddy. 



As I grew larger I naturally had charge of the setting hens in the 

 Spring time, and the joy of bringing out the first brood of fluffy chicks 

 is beyond words. With our motley mongrel breeds in those days the 

 little chicks presented all colors. Some were black as crows. Some 

 had a white spot on top of the head with black back and breast. Some 

 had brown stripes down their back. Others were spotted, or white or 

 grey or red. 



