You may remember that I get my new supplies of baby chicks through the mail; they come from a hatchery out in Webster, Iowa. I always order big breeds, layers of large brown eggs. For some extra money, I could get the Iowa folks to do some sorting and mail me only female chicks.

But I have some Welsh blood and am married into a Scottish clan. Those facts make me take a pinchpenny approach, almost always. In the case of chicks, that means I order "mixed heavy breeds." I get the brown-egg breeds I want, but their sex is luck of the draw.

Two years ago I hit the jackpot. Of the two-dozen chicks, three quarters grew into big, placid hens-Rhode Island reds, white rocks, black rocks, buff orpingtons. That year I only had to move five roosters to new quarters in the deep freeze, leaving one to keep the hens company.

The five had to go because any rooster is convinced he has to be in charge of hen yard and hens. As he matures, each cockerel turns into a swaggerer that, in effect, tells each of the others, "This place isn't big enough for both of us." Face-offs begin, and bloody fights, especially as sharp spurs grow on their heels. You can end up with some birds dead. The old adage has it right: "Two roosters is one too many."

There's an art to choosing the one rooster to remain. Maybe some day I'll master it. The goal is to choose a big, strong bird, one very protective of the hens. Ideally, he ought to be handsome, too-an ornament to the chicken yard.

A few years back I picked the perfect rooster, a towering black rock with a proud plume of a tail. When he moved through the sunlight, his oily dark feathers flashed with iridescent blues and greens. Those feathers extended right down to his feet, giving him a booted, piratical look. Anne and I called him "The Buccaneer."

Sad to say, that was the year that a couple of families' pet dogs, let loose at night, formed a hunting pack. They got into the henhouse and savaged a half-dozen hens. Buccaneer probably fought bravely, but the dogs got hold of him and dragged him out into the back field, tossing and tearing him. I found him out there the next day, standing motionless in a field corner, bleeding and half stripped of feathers. Buccaneer was suffering badly. I had to put him down. Is it foolish to mourn a chicken? Well, call me a fool.

I've already told you something about this year's fledgling roosters-about the cacophony each morning as they learn to crow. As day has followed day, my heart has sunk. More and more choked crows keep joining the discord. Among the twenty-four birds, I have too many roosters, too few hens.

And this year brought a new complication. Among the mixed breeds was one new to us. When the chicks grew and got their feathers, we saw that we were stuck with four turkens. This breed lays big brown eggs, but they're as ugly as buzzards. The adults are hulking, dark birds with long necks bare of feathers. Turkens look prehistoric. They stalk around the hen yard like escapees from Jurassic Park.

Fortunately, a home for the turkens was close at hand. The Fly Creek Cider Mill and Orchard likes to keep a few in the flock up there.

Sight of the creepy birds gives little girl visitors a delicious thrill and makes them squeal "Eeww!" Little boys, of course, love them. So I moved the four turkens a mile north to entertain the kids. I also threw in a nice white rooster-the kind that city kids only see in cereal ads.

That left me with a flock of nineteen, and I still have six roosters. The trick will be to keep the one that seems most like Buccaneer in disposition and mien. I watch them daily, trying to spot a standout, knowing a mistake can mean later trouble.

One year I made a real mistake. The big rooster I kept was so protective of the hens that he'd charge any human who entered the henhouse. He flew at my late, good friend Bill Shepard once, and another time at his son Duane. And Anne told me he'd gone for her shins, trying to spur her. I was inclined to dismiss the attacks as high spirits till the rooster attacked me one morning. I kicked him away, but he squawked and charged me again. And again.

Later that day, the rooster and I went for a walk. I came back alone.

But whether I make a good rooster choice or bad, this year we're going to end up with only a dozen hens. When egg production begins in October, we'll get a dozen eggs a day for a while. That's far too many, of course, for cholesterol-conscious Anne and me. But Anne has an established egg clientele in Fly Creek, and so we'll have to do some careful distribution.

Enough for now. I'm going out and stand by the chicken yard to study those half-dozen roosters. I'll be assigning points for strength, dignity, self-contained bravery, and good looks, too. Who knows? Maybe we'll luck out. Maybe we'll get a new Buccaneer.

Jim Atwell lives in and views life from Fly Creek.