Did you ever wonder how animals got their names? And why? Some of the stories are fascinating.
I'm reminded of a tale told to me long ago by an old farmer about the Rhode Island Reds. You'd think, quite naturally, that they are so called beacause they originate from Rhodes and are mostly reddish in colour, but this is not the case. While, strictly speaking, these things are indeed true ... they are not in fact, the reason why these animals got their name. The true story is a sad one, full of tumult and incident and not a little foolishness.
It all started with a cock called Hen5ry. He wasn't called Hen5ry by his mum when he was first hatched as a chick, but the more straightforward version of Henry. His mum, although descended from those chickens imported from Rhode Island so long ago, was proud to be British, and this brood she had decided to name after the kings and queens of days gone by.
Luckily, she didn't have to use numbers like the real kings and queens did because her clutch was quite a small one, although she had a sneaking admiration for Henry the fifth who was also known as Henry the Navigator and since young Henry had tried wandering off on his own bare seconds after he emerged from his shell she thought the name most appropriate for him.
Young Henry [because this -was- his name at the time] was an unusual sort of chick. Oh not by his size or colouring or anything like that, but he just didn't -behave- quite the same way that the other chicks did. He was seldom to be seen pecking around the yard, or turning over pebbles to see if there was anything interesting underneath them, and he *never* got into any of those fights and squabbles so prevalent among young males and so important to their future.
Only once was he ever challenged, at a time when he was dimly struggling with the concept of a fence, and why he and his kind were contained within it while he could clearly see ducks and geese wandering the farmyard and its environs quite freely. In fact it was quite warm and Henry jealously envied them their freedom to paddle in the pond to cool off. So you can see, what with the heat, and the difficulty of trying to understand the world around him, not to mention the anguish of the corroding envy creeping into his soul that Henry was in no mood for interruptions. So when Ethelred came up behind him and pecked him on the rear as an opening gambit Henry whirled in uncontrollable fury, screeching, in his little chicken voice, with unadulterated rage and venom and pecked Ethelred sharply between the eyes.
Ethelred collapsed. Stunned. But instead of crowing over his victory and claiming his place in the pecking order as was the usual thing, Henry merely turned away and did his best to unruffle his feathers and try to regain the thread of his tangled thoughts. The other chicks, astonished, and not a little afraid, decided to leave Henry out of things. They'd work out the pecking order for themselves and let Henry go his own way.
Henry's mum was becoming quite disturbed by his unusual behaviour and decided to cuddle him under her wing [which is where the phrase 'to take under one's wing' comes from by the way] and try to find out what was troubling Henry so, and to hopefully instil in him the proper lore of chickenhood that he might take his rightful place in the pecking order. She told him many stories, but we needn't go into them all here. The real nub of this tale is when she began describing the somewhat fanciful exploits of the kings and queens of England and told Henry exactly why he had been named so.
Henry sat thunderstruck as a great revelation came to him. This was his destiny. To emulate his namesake, not at sea, but on land. To lead a band of intrepid followers beyond the boundaries of their fence and to explore strange new worlds. [Henry was later to relate how he met someone who was working in television trying to write the opening narrative in a brand new science fiction series - a rather humourous anecdote in itself], but I digress.
He decided too, that he would henceforth be known as Hen5ry to denote his affiliation to that old king and his great ideals, but would tell no one except the group of faithful that he would recruit. It would be their password.
None of the other chicks would have anything to with him however, not after the incident with Ethelred, and the adults, as adults do, treated all chicks with equal disdain.
One day, a disconsolate Hen5ry was wandering around the perimeter fence, moodily looking at the world outside [a practise prisoners all over the world have adopted since] when he came upon Murphy, the farm's cat. Now Murphy was an old battle-scarred tom who had been around a bit, and had spent many an hour basking in the sun with his fellows [when he wasn't fighting them] and swapping yarns of places they had been and places they had heard of. Today, Murphy was feeling somewhat grumpy. Yet another of his well laid plans to snatch a duckling had gone astray and he was still smarting from the wallop the farmers wife had fetched him with a broom.
In fact, you'll all know of Murphy, because it was he, in his later years, drowsing by the fire, who finally formalised all the rules about how and why things can go wrong.
All Hen5ry knew was that Murphy knew a thing or two, and since no one else would listen to him he poured out all his anguish and his hopes in a great torrent. Murphy, at first not the least bit interested, because after all he had troubles of his own, began to perk up. He could have quite a lot of fun here he thought. He began paying attention, and slipped in a word or two of encouragement here and there to help him get the whole story. By the time Hen5ry was done they both felt better. Hen5ry, because it's always good to get things off your chest [something he told a chap called Frowd, or something like that, who wasn't very interested because he had a fetish about childhood sex], and Murphy because he had discovered a brand new sport which would keep him occupied for ages.
Murphy began to tell Hen5ry of the Russian revolution, where all chickens were equal, and none were penned in. Of course, he said, some chickens were a little more equal than others because quite naturally any band or group needs a leader otherwise there would be total anarchy. [This was an idea he'd picked up from cat that had stayed with George Orwell once, not that he believed in it himself.] Hen5ry, he could plainly see, was just such a one, and when Hen5ry protested that no one would listen to him - Murphy patiently explained the ins and outs of politics and leadership, the great spirit of the communist creed, and the practicalities of manipulating a populace into doing what *you* want them to do.
Of course, all this didn't happen overnight. Murphy often spent winter evenings grinning to himself by the fire, planning the next summer's campaign, often twitching with delight as a particularly devious twist came to mind. For Hen5ry had fallen for all this rubbish in a big way and was now the most ardent communist you'd never want to meet.
But while the ideals may have been a hotchpotch of scurrilous proportions the practical advice was good, and within five years Hen5ry, now a strong and vigorous adult and very much cock o' the walk [a term coined for his famed strolls around the perimeter fence] was to lead the entire flock beyond the fence into the real world and freedom.
It wasn't long before they realised that freedom to live as they pleased and where they pleased also meant the freedom to be taken by foxes, and the freedom to be cold and hungry. A much diminished and subdued band struggled on to find their promised land and a haven from the harsh realities of life.
Eventually, after many perilous incidents and adventures, too many by far to recount here, they came upon a place that seemed to suit their needs exactly. Tall grasses grew here, heavy with seeds, insects and bugs abounded, and their promised land was protected on all sides by a wide flat gray plain upon which strange versions of farmyard tractors rushed about at high speed. A barrier that few predators dared to cross.
Hen5ry's dream had at last come true. You can see his descendants even today if you look carefully enough, and if you were to enquire of a local just what these strange chickens were he'd tell you ...
They're Road Island Reds of course!
