Now the chicken yard happened to be just outside the big
picture window in the Farmer’s best parlor. When guest would come the farmer
and his wife would proudly point out their lovely White Leghorns, the
shimmering Buff Orphingtons, the Beautiful Dappled Bard Rock, and the fluffy
white Silkies.
The chickens thought this was just
fine and fluffed, and preened, and dashed to take their places strutting
proudly before the window; daintily scratching about for grubs and pieces of
grass, whenever they saw company coming.
Then one day, just as she was about
to catch a bright green grasshopper, the littlest Silky looked in the window
and gasped in horror! The farmer’s wife had a beautiful black chicken by the
feet and was shaking it all over the furniture!
Quickly she called to the other to
see for their own eyes. “Something must be done!” clucked the distressed little
Silky.
“I’ll say!” cackled the dappled
Bard Rock. “In all my life none of us have ever been invited into the house.
And that chicken is being allowed to touch everything!”
The tall White Leghorn sniffed indignantly,
“I should have guessed they’d prefer black to white.”
“Yes,” mussed the Bard Rock,
leaning forward to look closer, “it is a perfect jet black isn’t it?”
“Yes,” they all clucked in
agreement.
It was sure, the farmer’s wife must
have the most beautiful chicken to take into the house and wipe all over her furniture.
No longer satisfied with being
shown off to the guests, the hens took care every morning to preen and fluff
and strut and cluck when the farmer’s wife came to their pen. But all she ever
did was take their eggs and smile, saying softly, “Are you all just the prettiest
bird that ever walked the earth?” But they knew she didn’t mean it, because day
after day, it was the black chicken and not they being swung by its feet all
around the farm house.
“It’s not fare,” declared the
Leghorn one day as she sat waiting to pass an egg. Then she had an idea, one
she could not do alone. So, she called all the other chickens to her, and told
them her idea.
They each quickly agreed, but the
littlest Silky was not so sure, she was after all the one putting herself most
at risk. “Now that gets one of us a chance, but what about the rest?”
“Oh we’ll take turns,” the much
larger hen assured her in an off handed way. She just knew she would be the
next to be chosen and she didn’t want to wait a moment longer than she had to.
The little Silky hushed and they
waited. Soon, as was her afternoon habit, the farmer’s wife entered the parlor
and began to shale the bird about. The golden Orphington flew over the fence
and pecked at the front door. When the farmer’s wife appeared, she gasped that
the bird had escaped her enclosure and swiftly dropped her things and ran after
the now retreating bird. As soon as she had gone the Littlest Silky scurried
into the house.
The hallway inside was so big the
poor little bird might have left a surprise for the farmer’s wife. But
remembering her task she quickly ran around hoping up and down until she found
the feathered mass. She grabbed it by the wing and darted back out to the hen
house with the mass of feathers flopping about behind her.
All the hens gathered around and
stared at the now still figure. “Oh dear,” sighed the largest of the Silkies, “You’ve
killed it, dear.”
They all stood about unsure what to
do next, until the Large White Leghorn, who wasn’t as sure the farmer’s wife
would like her pure white feathers now that she looked closely at the black,
stepped forward and declared, “Well she won’t need these anymore!” and with
that she snatched a hand full of feathers and gave it one great pull.
Just like that the hen house
erupted, each hen grabbing and grasping for all the feathers she could get her
hands on! Until, the dust settled and nothing was left of the bird but one leg
bone. (It was rumored there after that the curious Bardrock had stolen the beak
but she always denied it.)
The next afternoon the farmer’s
wife came into the room just as usual but she went here and there looking all
around. At last, in frustration she stopped and put her hands on her hips. That’s
when her eyes fell on the chicken yard. There, with all the pomp and strutting they
could manage stood every single chicken with black feathers tide all over them!
She gawked and then gasped and then ran out her front door to the chicken yard.
She gawked and then gasped and then ran out her front door to the chicken yard.
The hens, their little hearts all a
flutter, ran up to her, each knowing that her stunning beauty was sure to be
chosen. Imagine their delight when the farmer’s wife grabbed them by their
feet and shook each one with all her might!
Imagine her surprise, when finishing shaking one, she found another black feather duster covered chicken offer itself up to be shaken. But it didn’t stop till every last chicken had been shaken and all the lost feathers had been reclaimed, not to mention a whole lot of new feathers.
Imagine her surprise, when finishing shaking one, she found another black feather duster covered chicken offer itself up to be shaken. But it didn’t stop till every last chicken had been shaken and all the lost feathers had been reclaimed, not to mention a whole lot of new feathers.
That night, in the hen house, it
was decided that being shaken by the feet was perhaps not a job to be sought
after. And if you looked in the big window in the afternoon as the farmer’s
wife dusted, you would see that her duster was no longer just plain black. It
was white, and speckled, and, fluffy, and golden. And she smiled whenever she
used it.