This is a story that I wrote. It’s meant to be a picture book but it hasn’t found a home with a publisher, so I am sharing it here.

photograph by Steve Golson

The Night the Animals Talk
by Terry Golson

Hannah Rose looks out of the kitchen window into the dark night.

What are the animals doing now Papa? asks Hannah Rose.

They are going to sleep, says Papa. Like you.

But that’s not what Grandma told me, says Hannah Rose. She said that tonight is special. 

Yes, yes, says Papa impatiently. It’s Christmas Eve. All the more reason for you to get to bed!

But, Papa, Grandma said that the animals will talk tonight, insists Hannah Rose.

Hmph! Old folk tales, says Papa. Off to bed with you!

Hannah Rose tries to sleep, but the stars shine brightly through her window. They light a sparkly path to the barn. She wraps her quilt around her and puts her feet into her slippers. She tiptoes to the barn, slides the heavy door open a crack and steps inside.

Hannah Rose is here! says Buffy, the brown hen.

You do talk! says Hannah Rose.

Hah, she never stops! says Daisy, the goat.

Well, I’m awake and hungry, says Ginger, the spotted hen, as she hops down off of the roost. Would you be so kind as to give me some corn?

Some for me, too, says Buffy.

A tiny voice squeaks, Drop a little extra for me, please. The mouse’s quivering nose pokes out from its hiding place. Over here, the mouse says, away from the cat.

Oh, says TomTom, I won’t chase you tonight, not on Christmas Eve. He rubs against Hannah Rose’s legs. A scratch behind my ears would be nice, he says in a gravely voice.

I would like some hay, says Daisy.

Brownie, the old mare, shakes her head. Staying up late has made me hungry. A handful of oats in my bucket will do.

Hannah gets corn for the chickens, hay for the goat, scratches the cat, feeds the horse and tosses a few grains for the mouse.

Thank you, say the hens.

Thank you, says the mouse.

Delicious, says the goat, talking with her mouth full.

Ah, that feels good, says TomTom.

Thank you, says Brownie. I do like a midnight snack. The horse sighs and lies down in the deep straw of her stall.

Hannah Rose yawns and shivers in the cold.

Come and warm up next to me, says Brownie.

Hannah Rose curls up on the horse’s round belly, pulling her quilt over her. She soon falls fast asleep. 

The sun is just rising in the sky when the barn door rattles opens and startles Hannah Rose awake.

Hannah Rose! says Papa, So here you are! It’s Christmas morning. There are presents under the tree to open!

I heard the animals talk! says Hannah, rubbing her eyes.

Really, and what did they say? asks Papa.

They wanted corn and oats and hay. TomTom wanted a scratch and even the mouse asked for food, says Hannah Rose.

Hmmph, says Papa. That’s what they always say. I don’t need to stay up in the dark and cold to hear that.

But they also said thank-you! says Hannah Rose.

Of course they did, says Papa. They always do. Each animal says thank you in its own way. TomTom purrs when he’s happy. And haven’t you heard Brownie do that low nicker when she gets her grain? Why, all of the animals thank us.

Now let’s get you back to the house, says Papa. He picks up Hannah Rose and swings her onto his shoulders.

As she leaves the barn she hears TomTom purring, Brownie nicker and the chickens cluck. Daisy bleats meh-meh. Hannah Rose waves good-bye, and as Papa heads for home, she hears the tiny squeak of a tiny mouse.

You’re welcome, whispers Hannah Rose.

LIly was quite excited when the delivery man left a big box on the front porch. I was, too, because I knew what was inside. One of my readers is a potter. She also has chickens. Of course, if you have a flock of hens, you are always thinking of how to make the coop area more charming. If you’re a potter, and one as talented as LIndsay, then you can act on your whims.

Lindsay has come up with a line of chicken feeders and waterers of her own design. To me, they are reminiscent of the vintage ceramic dispensers that I occasionally see at flea markets. But, Lindsay’s are vibrantly colorful and cheerful. They’re also beautifully crafted and eminently useful.

She sent me a small feeder in my choice of color, red. (Yellow, blue and custom hues are available.) I filled it with pellets and placed it  inside of the coop. The Gems were immediately drawn to it, and set right to eating.

The color red encourages eating and drinking (which is why plastic founts are often that color.) The shine of the glaze, and Lindsay’s perfectly designed feeder lips, increased the appeal for the hens and they ate with gusto.

Because it is pottery,  the feeder can’t withstand ice and freezing. I could keep it inside of the coop, but I’m going to store it away until springtime, when I can use it outside, where it will look charming near the red barn door. Since this is a medium version, instead of using it for feed, I’m going to fill it with oyster shell and grit. I have a feeling that the girls will consume more of those essential minerals when they’re offered in a pottery feeder.

Lindsay makes each pot by hand. She is a craftsman, and so you will spend more for one of these than for a serviceable plastic dispenser. Think of her pots as garden ornaments rather than strictly utilitarian objects, and maybe you’ll be able to find room in your budget for one.

You can find Lindsay’s pots at her website, Rock Bottom Pottery and at her Etsy shop.

Max and Duplicatot are dressed for the winter.

This photograph is from my collection of vintage animal ephemera, and is available in Vintage Chicken Photographs: 30 Postcards in the HenCam store and at select retailers.

Horses have always been on my mind, but now, with Tonka here for a week and a half, horses are back in my life. Everyday.

It’s too icy to ride, which is fine, because it gives Tonka and I a chance to get to know each other from the ground. He’s a horse with a kind eye and a sane head, but that doesn’t mean that he’s going to jump right into a trusting relationship with me. I’m spending time simply grooming and hand-grazing him (I hold the lead while he finds things to nibble under the snow.) I’ve also started to use the clicker to train him to do a “touch,” and I’m teaching him to come. He’s beginning to pay attention to me. He’s beginning to trust that the lines of communication are open. We listen to each other. (I’ll be writing about this in the months to come.)

Trust in your horse and your horse’s trust in you, is essential for a safe and enjoyable ride. There are plenty of “natural horsemanship” cowboys out there touting ways to get there. Some of what they say is useful (although much isn’t!) Some say that they’ve discovered a new way of training, but the fact is that good horsemen have developed trust using gentle methods for the thousands of years that we’ve worked alongside these animals.

Not all horseman are kind. Many are harsh. Many don’t know any other way than to subjugate the horse into behaving. But, even in the past the old plow horse was often treated as a member of the farm family. In my library of vintage farm ephemera I have a treatise published in 1898 on how to train with kindness. Photographs in my collection also tell this story. A small boy of four couldn’t hold onto 2,000 pounds of horses without a lot of trust between all involved.

Look at this team’s quiet yet alert posture. They like that boy.

A mule looks sort of like a horse with long ears, a long face, bristles instead of a mane along the neck, and a wisp of a tail. I’ve never ridden one, but I’ve known a few, and I like them a lot. I’ve done several pack trips through wild mountains here in North America. We dudes were on horses, but many of the pack animals were mules, especially the one entrusted with the bulky and awkward and all-important cookstove. I’ve known wranglers who prefer riding mules. The head cowboy on a trip through the Sangre de Cristo Mountains in New Mexico rode a mule. He claimed that his good mule had saved his life several times. Mules have a deeply-ingrained sense of self-preservation. If you load their packs unevenly, they won’t budge. If you ask a mule to go through a mucky area, he’ll tell you if the footing is unsafe. The cowboy in the Sangre de Cristos, as we rode along the mountain ridge, pointed out a charred tree trunk. He’d been on his mule, just the two of them out in the wilderness, when all of a sudden the mule stopped dead. Refused to budge. A sudden boom of thunder. A crack. A flash. The tree a few hundred feet in front of them burst into flames. Any closer, and both he and his mule would have been dead. That mule just stood and watched. A horse would have high-tailed it into the next state.

Some mules are quite large. In times past, mules could be used to plow a field and then take you to church on Sunday. Look at this gentle giant. His lady is riding him with just a simple bit held on with a strap of twine.

I did think about getting a mule instead of a horse; if I lived in the mountains I just might have. Do any of you have experience with mules? Do tell!