Here the animals that gave my owners food and life were raised in a natural way. Here often came a blond girl, daughter of the family that built me. She came with some breadcrumbs and with the leftovers of her meals, to feed the hens I protected. The little hens ran to meet her when they saw her coming, aware of the goodies waiting for them. Chickens are greedy little animals, if you don’t know it yet. You have to see how they squabble when they arrive in two at the same piece of food.
They are also generous, though. They always gave fresh and nutritious eggs to my little owner, which she brought home.
Well, to say the truth, sometimes the eggs didn’t get home. She made a little hole on them, that brat, and she ate them there and then. She was little, but knew how to recognize the brooding chicken, for her way of keeping her wings wide to cover all the fertilized eggs with her body to keep them warm. And what a thrill when, one morning, the eggs were broken and the hen had behind her many small and noisy yellow chicks.

The factor was behind her, teaching her all sorts of things, because he knew that one day she would grow up and take care of us and all the rest.

The farmer was right, because she’s still here and I’m still here too.

I am the
Farmer’s House.