One story has been told many times because it shows how, even as a four-year-old, I already had the makings of a true naturalist.   Vanne had taken me to stay with my father's mother, Mrs. Nutt (I called her Danny Nutt because I could not say "granny"), at the family farm.  One of my tasks was to collect the hens' eggs.  As the days passed, I became more and more puzzled.  Where on a chicken was there an opening big enough for an egg to come out?   Apparently no one explained this properly, so I must have decided to find out for myself.  I followed a hen into one of the little wooden henhouses--but of course, as I crawled after her she gave horrified squawks and hurriedly left.  My young brain must have then worked out that I would have to be there first.  So I crawled into another henhouse and waited, hoping a hen would come in to lay.  And there I remained, crouched silently in one corner, concealed in some straw, waiting.  At last a hen came in, scratched about in the straw, and settled herself on her makeshift nest just in front of me.  I must have kept very still or she would have been disturbed.   Presently the hen half stood and I saw a round white object gradually protroding from the feathers between her legs.  Suddenly with a plop, the egg landed on the straw.  With clucks of pleasure the hen shook her feathers, nudged the egg with her beak, and left.  It is quite extraordinary how clearly I remembered that whole sequence of events.

Filled with excitement I squeezed out after her and ran home.  It was almost dark--I had been in that small stuffy henhouse for nearly four hours.  I was oblivious of the fact that no one had known where I was, and that the whole household had been searching for me.  They had even called the police to report me missing.  Yet despite her worry, when Vanne, still searching, saw the excited little girl rushing toward the house, she did
not scold me.  She noticed my shining eyes and sat down to listen to the story of how a hen lays an egg: the wonder of that moment when the egg finally fell to the ground.

Certainly I was lucky to be provided with a mother wise enough to nurture and encourage my love of living things and my passion for knowledge.  Most important was her philosophy that her children should always try their very best.  How would I have turned out, I sometimes wonder, had I grown up in a house that stifled enterprise by imposing harsh and senseless discipline.  Or in an atmosphere of overindulgence, in a household where there were no rules, no boundaries drawn.  My mother certainly understood the importance of discipline, but she always explained why some things were not allowed.  Above all, she tried to be fair and to be consistent.

From REASON FOR HOPE by Jane Goodall.  Copyright (c) 1999 by Soko Publications Ltd. and Phillip Berman.  by permission of Warner Books, Inc.  All rights reserved.  To purchase copies of this book, please call 1.800.759.0190.