Soon, however, we moved again. When I wasabout thirteen, we lived on a small farm in south central Arkansas. The farm consisted of about 80 acres of land, 40 of which were in woodland and the other 40 in worn out rocky soil on which cotton had been raised for a number of years
One day, my dad asked me to go to a neighbor’s house and get a dozen to fifteen eggs to put under a setting hen. I complied, brought the eggs home and per his instructions put them carefully under the hen that was sitting in a box with straw in it. She did not like it as she pecked at me whenever I tried to put an egg under her. I guess she thought I was trying to steal her eggs. I finally succeeded although she could peck hard and it hurt.
About three weeks later,those eggs began to explode. Boom! Then another boom. They were all rotten. Something was wrong. Since it was one of my chores to take care of the chickens, I went to my father and told him those eggs I bought were no good. None of them had hatched!
He paused a moment and then said. “Did you ask Mr. Keisler if he had a rooster before you bought those eggs?” Puzzled, I replied, “No, why should I? You said you wanted some eggs, not a rooster.”
“Son,” he said, “Come sit down. I think it is time you and I had a little talk.”
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