12/27/2025
IF YOU AINT BREEDING TO THE HEN SIDE,
WHAT ARE YOU DOING??? WHY DID THE OLD-TIMERS FAVOR THE HEN??? AND WHY YOU SHOULD TOO.
BY "GENTLEMEN JACK"
Well now, pull up a chair and mind your coffee & rum, cause this is one of those truths I learned the hard way after feeding a whole lot of pretty chickens that never quite lived up to their feathers.
Back when it was legal and a man could still talk plain about gamec**ks without whisperin’, and having to say "back when legal" every time i open my jabber, most seasoned breeders favored breeding to the hen side, and that wasn’t superstition or barn-lot poetry. It was based on observation—long, stubborn, feed-bill-paid-for observation.
You see, a c**k can fool you. A good one especially. He struts, he shines, he wins a show or a pitting, and before you know it folks are lining up at your door to breed to him like he’s the second coming of Christ. Trouble is, one great c**k can be just that—one great chicken. He might’ve borrowed his grit, wind, and sense from his mama and never learned how to pass it along proper.m, to his kids.
An old hen, though… now that’s where the truth lives.
A brood hen tells you what a family really is. If she throws multiple good c**ks, year after year, to different males, that ain’t luck—that’s inheritance. Old timers used to say, “A good c**k proves himself once; a good hen proves herself every spring.” And they meant it.
The hen side was favored because that’s where the consistency came from:
Gameness that didn’t quit when the lights dimmed
Wind that stayed when the clock got rude
Sense enough to fight smart instead of flashy
Those traits showed up more reliably when the hen line was solid. A weak hen bred to the best c**k alive usually gave you fine-looking disappointments. A strong hen bred to an average c**k? She’d surprise you and your neighbors too.
Another thing folks forget is that hens don’t lie as easy. A rooster can win one hot afternoon and be called great forever. A hen has to produce, and if she didn’t, she found herself reassigned to the stew pot without much ceremony. Old timers were ruthless but fair—sentimental men didn’t last long in Cockfighting.
There was also the matter of family memory. Hens carried the stamp of a line. You could lose a famous c**k and still rebuild if you had his sisters, daughters, or dam. Lose the hen line, and all you had left was stories and bragging rights—neither of which hatch chicks.
One old Oklahoma fellow I knew used to say,
“Any fool can buy a rooster. It takes a breeder to recognize a hen.”
He wasn’t much for poetry, but he was right more often than wrong.
So when the old timers bred heavy to the hen side, it wasn’t because they loved hens more than roosters ir cause they heard it somewhere nobody told them it was trial and error. It was because hens told the truth, kept receipts, and didn’t care about reputations.
And if a man was smart—and most of ‘em learned eventually—he listened to the hens, tipped his hat to the past, and tried not to get fooled by a shiny set of spurs again.
That’s not romance.
That’s experience talking. GOD BLESS ALL OF YOU. KEEPEM GAME