Grandma had a Big Job. "The eggs need collecting," she said, "and I think you're ready." She gave Ivy the little wicker basket with straw inside, soft as a bird's nest.
The henhouse was warm and dusty-gold. The hens said podok-podok and shuffled along their perch. And there, in the nesting box, lay four eggs, smooth and speckly.
Ivy was so excited that she grabbed the first egg quick-quick — and tap! It knocked the basket rim. A thin little crack, like a hair. Oh no.
"Never mind," said Grandma, holding out her bowl. "That one can be tomorrow's pancake egg." Into the bowl it went, safe as anything. "Now try slow, soft hands."
So Ivy made her hands soft, as if she were holding a baby bird. Soft hands, slow hands. The second egg was cool and smooth, and it travelled gently down, down into the basket — plop. Safe in the straw.
Soft hands, slow hands. The third egg was warm as toast. Down it went — plop. Safe beside its friend.
Soft hands, slow hands. The last egg was the smallest, brown as a conker. Plop. Safe.
Three eggs in the basket, one in Grandma's bowl — every single egg had a home. Ivy carried the basket back across the garden so carefully that the straw barely rustled.
That evening, the basket sat by the warm stove. Outside, the hens went quiet, one podok at a time. Ivy curled up nearby, watching the eggs glow in the lamplight, feeling big and gentle both at once.
"Good job, little egg-keeper," said Grandma softly. But Ivy was already nearly asleep, hands still curved in her lap, soft and slow, as if one more little egg might land there — plop — safe in her dreams.