Then last Thursday the first grade teacher called.

"The eggs hatched and the children enjoyed them very much. Would you like to take the chicks home to keep?" My mouth responded before my brain could intervene.

"Sure! How many are there? When shall I come get them?"

"Thirteen. Tomorrow. There are two that seem, well, fragile. I doubt they will make it."

I wasn't sure whether to tell the twins or not. Would they scold me? We had talked about this. But when the secret slipped out they were instantly on board. We tucked them into a bin in the dining room and used an empty tissue box for a house. The girls named them Harry, Hermione, Ron, Sirius Black, Hagrid, Dobby, Ginny, Molly, Luna, Cho, Fleur, Neville, and Tonks. The box was christened the Gryffindor Common room, and the sewing class that day made little red capes for them. The two runts fluffed up after a warm bath and extra holding. 

There was one yellow one who seemed unwilling or unable to lay down to sleep. So she fell asleep standing up or leaning on a sister. But then her legs would crumple and she would wake up. Hope decided to wrap her in a bit of quilt batting like a burrito and she zonked out instantly. After two days of focused attention, the girls napped too, with chicks in their cupped hands. 

Taking care of something helpless is an endearing experience to share with someone. John and I have worked shoulder to shoulder for eight presidential elections to feed, clothe and corral children, and it has woven us together like a maypole. Having finally ended the parade of Odhner progeny it is satisfying to fuss over a flock with the twins.