One for the birds.

I remember one day when Grandpa Sharp was out cutting hay with a
scyth, He came back to the house for lunch. He wasn't wearing his hat,
he was carrying it I wondered why and ran up to see why. In it he had
over a dozen pheasant eggs. He had cut the head off the mother when
he swung the scyth over her nest there in the hay. Grandpa never saw
her until after he had done it. Grandpa put the eggs under an old
biddy hen that was always trying to hatch out the new layed eggs. A
week or so later they hatched out. All the babies followed the mother
hen just like they were chickens. They never knew the difference.
After a while Grandpa cut the feathers off one of their wings so they
couldn't fly out of the chicken run. In the fall when they were
grown, My Uncles killed them and Grandma canned them up.