“Chickens.”
“Chickens.”
The boy nodded toward the hens.
“Maybe they should meet.”
The old farmer laughed.
Not mockingly.
“That might be the smartest thing you’ve said.”
The boy smiled.
The farmer stood.
“Don’t tell the others I said that.”
On day ten, the farm boy found something strange.
One of his comparison trees had significantly less visible damage around new buds.
Not dramatically less.
But enough that he checked twice.
Then three times.
The chicken-access trees also had fewer visible larvae in the surface soil.
He knew ten days was not enough to prove much.
But something was happening.
He ran to find his father.
The father was repairing a tractor.
“Come look.”
“At what?”
“Trees.”
The father kept working.
“Trees are where they were yesterday.”
“Please.”
The father looked at the boy’s face.
Then set down the wrench.
They walked to the marked rows.
The boy showed the difference.
His father inspected the buds.
Then another tree.
Then soil beneath it.
He said nothing for nearly a minute.
“What?”
The boy asked.
“I’m thinking.”
“About what?”
“Whether this is chickens or whether these trees were healthier already.”
The boy’s excitement faded.
“I picked them randomly.”
“How?”
“I counted every third tree.”
The father looked at him.
“You did?”
“Yes.”
The father inspected another branch.
Then the control tree behind the fence.
He frowned.
“What?”
The boy asked again.
His father looked at the ground.
“Not enough data.”
The boy sighed.
“But?”
The father stood.
“But I’m no longer hoping you get bored.”
That was the first real admission.
The boy grinned.
His father pointed at him.
“Do not get proud yet.”
“I’m not.”
“You look proud.”
“I’m happy.”
“Same danger.”
The boy laughed.
On day eleven, the loud farmer returned.
He brought two men.
The exact group that had laughed on the first morning.
They stood near the gate.
The farm boy approached.
The loud farmer looked toward the chickens.
“Still alive.”
“Yes.”
“Trees still alive.”
“Yes.”
“That’s already better than I expected.”
The boy said nothing.
The farmer walked into the orchard.
He looked down.
The surface soil had changed visibly.
Leaf litter was disturbed.
Old fruit had been broken apart.
Insects were harder to find near the most active scratching zones.
The farmer kicked at the ground.
“You feed them?”
“Yes.”
“Then why would they work for bugs?”
“They like bugs.”
The farmer nodded reluctantly.
One of the other farmers crouched.
He picked something from the soil.
“Look at this.”
A grub.
The hens immediately approached.
One grabbed it from his fingers.
The men laughed.
Different laughter now.
Curiosity instead of ridicule.
The loud farmer remained skeptical.
“Even if they eat insects, they still cost feed.”