They went in the hen house but couldn’t find a single egg. As they left the hen house they saw several sets of footprints leading away from the roost.
Following them up and over a hill they found an abandoned campsite with a still smoldering fire.
Next to the fire was an old pot and a worn ladle. Beside the pot lay a heaping pile of broken egg shells.
The father knelt down next to the pot and dipped in the ladle and pulled it out to examine its contents.
It was full of water, swirling with white, silky strands. Seeing this, the farmer’s face contorted with rage.
“What is it Pa?” the boy asked anxiously.
The farmer took a long sigh, then with a hard voice said, “Boy, best fetch me my rifle, those damn poachers are back”