Chapter Sixteen
On Saturday morning, Liz and I had barn duty. I always enjoyed this part of our academy routine, and Liz was coming around to it also, primarily because it was a distraction from the constant study of textbooks. She especially liked the baby animals.
“Here, chicky, chicky.” Liz knelt as she spread a handful of scratch grain, consisting of whole wheat, milo, and cracked corn, on the ground.
The hen, Mrs. Keaton, came running, with her fifteen yellow chicks right behind her.
“They are so cute,” Liz said as she watched the babies imitate their mother in pecking at the feed. “How can they digest those hard seeds?”
“They have an organ called ‘gizzard,’” I said. “It grinds hard things. Sometime you see chickens eat small stones. Those go into gizzard and help grind up food.”
