Jean Bell Mosley's new autobiography, "For Most of the Century," is only available in serialized form in the Southeast Missourian. Return each week for her continuing story.

Since one of our sources of cash was to be chickens and eggs, we built a long, sturdy, airy chicken house. I faintly remember the time of its construction, not so much the actual hammer-and-nailing but the pride we took in choosing the type of chicken house that was to be built. It was not to be just a dinky, little, old coop constructed of scrap lumber. No, this was to be the type shown in our agriculture textbook we studied at school, written by Professor Ghers. Some in our community actually knew Professor Ghers!

The architectural feature of this chicken house was the upper row of windows beneath a roof that slanted to the north and a lower level of windows beneath a roof that slanted to he south. Eleven windows with a southern exposure! These windows were sliding, screened windows, which, in the winter could be covered with a white, opaque sort of oil cloth tacked over the screens to keep out the cold winds, snow and sleet, yet let in the light.

There was a long row of about twenty, joining, partitioned nests about two feet off the ground, supported by a number of two by four legs. The ceilings of the nests reached to the rear of the house. Slanting roosts of slender poles, from our own woods, were above the nests' ceiling from which the droppings could be easily scraped off, a chore with which I was later to become acquainted.

The floor of the chicken house was the ground, covered with straw, replaced at suitable intervals, another learnable chore. The chickens could always find water from the livestock watering trough in the summer time but inverted half gallon jars, screwed to a type of lid that released the water gradually as it was consumed, were always kept filled in the winter chicken house. These had to be monitored closely on freezing days.

Long metal feeding trays, called hoppers, were always kept filled with cracked corn or other types of chicken feed. There were spaced partitions in these hoppers where the chickens could poke their heads in to feed. These partitions prevented them from walking in the trays and thus fouling the feed.

If I seem to be spending much time describing such a common thing as a chicken house it is because I found it a rather pleasant place to be. Time moved slowly and orderly here. The clucking of the hens was a sound of contentment; the crowing of the roosters, a comical announcement of "I'm in charge here!" Going down the long rows of nests, gathering the eggs, and placing them carefully in big buckets, was always a satisfying thing for me. How many eggs might there be in the next nest? Maybe seven? Eight? A dozen! Knowing the eggs were a source of livelihood as well as food, the feel of them in my hand --white, brown or speckled -- gave me a sense of security and well-being. If I found one still warm from the hen's body, I held it in my hand a long time. Even today I tend to hold an egg lovingly in my hand before breaking it for any purpose, maybe even touch it to my cheek, especially if it is a brown speckled egg.

We had Rhode Island Reds and White Leghorns. When the rose-combed breeds came on, we proudly turned to some of them because, as much care as we took in housing our wintertime chickens, some of their combs, big and floppy as were the Leghorns', froze in the bitter cold.

Occasionally we would swap settings of eggs with neighbors and thus get some Buff Orpingtons or White Laced Black Wyandotts. However, we were always "heavy" on Leghorns since these were the best layers. Leghorns were high strung and if you entered the chicken house abruptly they grew hysterical, flying in any direction they were facing even if it was into your face.

In the beginning we hatched our own chickens, depending on a certain number of hens to become "broody" in the springtime. A setting of eggs was given her, usually twelve, and a special straw-lined box. If she chose her own place, say in the plum thicket, we let her be.

As this industry increased for us, an incubator was purchased. This was a square-like contraption with a pull-out drawer that could hold a certain number of eggs, usually two dozen. A constant heat was provided by an attached kerosene lamp which had to be watched carefully. For that reason I remember that the incubator was kept in Mama's bedroom so that it could be watched in the night. I wonder how well Mama slept? The faint odor of the kerosene lamp permeated the upstairs bedroom which was rather pleasant for we knew it meant good things were under way.

The eggs to be put into the incubator had to be candled first to see if they were fertile. A special piece of equipment, called a candeler, held an egg in front of a lighted candle. The light, shining through the egg, could determine if the fertilizing element was present. Also, the eggs had to be marked with a dab of shoe polish or blueing so that we could tell if they had been turned over, a thing that had to be done every day to assure proper development of the chick inside. A hen, by her nature, will do this without any benefit of marking.

Then we outgrew the incubator and ordered baby chickens by mail. This way we could control the number of hens and roosters we wanted. A suitable number of roosters were always kept, not only to fertilize the eggs but for their eternal cockiness, their cheerful morning calls, the shimmering of their beautiful tail feathers.

Maybe a hundred chicks would be ordered at one time. These came by mail to the nearest post office. To go to a post office when everyone's ordered baby chicks were arriving in the spring was an exciting experience. Hearing all those hundreds of chicks cheeping at one time is one of the lost sounds of the twentieth century.

Increasing the flock meant the construction of a brooder house. This we built about a hundred feet west of the smokehouse.

The brooder, a large, round, metal canopy, was placed on the floor. It was supported by short legs raised about three or four inches from the floor. Thus the chicks could wander all over the brooder house if they so desired and come back any time under the metal canopy to get warm. It, too, was heated by a kerosene type heater in the middle, as well as windows facing south which captured the heat of whatever sunshine there might be.

One dramatic event in the life of our chickens and chicken house was when Mama discovered some hens were missing. Sometimes their half-eaten carcasses were left inside the chicken house. Tracing the path of the thief, Mama found a dug out opening at the base of a wall. She set a trap and a few mornings later there was a fine furred mink in the trap. This creature was sold to a not-too-faraway firm dealing in animal skins. It brought the handsome sum of six dollars. Ah, bonuses. How rare and welcome they were.

Rejoice!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.