Another buyer arrived unannounced with his brother and spent two hours trying to persuade Vera to reveal the Missouri source so he could buy the parent birds himself. She explained that she had purchased her original flock lawfully and knew less about its history than he seemed to imagine. She had worked hard to trace what little provenance existed, but she would not invent a secret breeder in order to make the birds appear more exclusive. He left disappointed, and Daniel, who had been repairing a gate nearby, said she could probably have charged for the disappointment if she had wanted to. Vera laughed and told him she preferred to sell chickens rather than mysteries.
There were failures among the successes. One hatch suffered from a temperature problem and produced fewer healthy birds than expected, costing Vera both money and time. A spring storm damaged the fence near the creek, and she lost several nights of sleep making repairs before a predator could exploit the opening. Two young birds developed a respiratory illness that required isolation and the advice of a local poultry specialist. She made the necessary changes, recorded the losses, and declined to send birds for sale from any group whose health she could not confidently describe.
The discipline disappointed customers who hoped for quicker deliveries, but it strengthened the operation. When Vera sent an invoice, the quantity and price matched the birds or eggs that actually left the farm. When she could not fulfill an order, she said so promptly and offered a later date rather than making excuses after payment was due. Martha told her one afternoon that people were beginning to trust the Aldren name as much as the appearance of the eggs. Vera went home with that sentence resting somewhere in her chest, because her father's reputation had been built on exactly the same kind of slow accumulation.
During an August visit, Professor Whitfield came himself to see the two farms. He arrived in a dusty automobile with a folder of research notes and a curiosity that seemed to delight him more than any official title. Vera walked him through the original coop, the new breeding pens, and the record room she had made from a corner of the Henderson barn. He examined the hens, weighed eggs, and spent a long time studying the growth tables. When he finished, he told her that whatever the ultimate classification, the line was worth preserving because the work she had already done made it possible for others to study it honestly.
"I wish my father could hear you say that," Vera admitted.
"Was he a breeder?" the professor asked.
"A farmer. He taught me to pay attention."
Whitfield nodded. "Then he taught you the most important part of this work. Instruments help. Records help. But the first thing a person needs is the willingness to notice what is actually there."
After he left, Vera walked through the pens alone, seeing the buildings as he had seen them. There were no marble floors, no polished laboratories, and no easy money hidden behind the wire. There was sawdust, feed, patched roofing, young birds, and notebooks filled with the results of work done