‘Daisy has a feather!’ I hear Silky Josephine say. 
     She has raced ahead to the brooder box where we were bound with fresh feed and water for the chicks, and is looking inside. 
     ‘There not red though,’ she informs me, as I come to stand beside her, ‘or even orange.’ 
     And sure enough, through the fluff of little yellow Daisy’s wings, feathers have begun to sprout. And just as Josie has said, not a hint of red or orange. More black than anything. 
     ‘Well,’ I say, ‘Our little Comet is full of surprises, isn’t she?’ 
     Silky nods. 
     ‘What kind of chicken is she now?’ she asks. 
     ‘She’s a mutt, Josephine,' I tell her, 'like you and me and Peter Pan and Harley. A little bit of this. A little bit of that. Nothing in particular. Just a chicken.’ 
     ‘Is that a good kind of chicken to be?’ Silky asks, concerned, 'A Just-a-Chicken chicken?' 
     ‘It is,’ I tell her, ‘It’s the best kind of chicken to be.’