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A little red hen lived in a barnyard; she spent almost all of her time walking about

the barnyard in her Piketty Pecha, scratching everywhere for worms; she dearly loved

fat, delicious worms and felt they were absolutely necessary to the health of her

children, as often as she found a worm, she would call it “Chuck Chuck Chuck.”

to her chicks, when they gathered about her, she would distribute choice morsels

of her tidbit, a busy little body was she.

A cat usually napped lazily in the barn door, not even bothering herself to scare

the rat who ran here and there as he pleased, and as for the pig who lived in the sty

she did not care what happened so long as he could eat and grow fat.

One day the little red hen found a seed; it was a wheat seed, but the little red hen

was so accustomed to bugs and worms that she supposed this to be some new

and perhaps a very delicious kind of meat; she bit it gently and found out that

it resembled a worm in no way whatsoever as to taste, although because it was long

and slender, a little red hen might easily be fooled by its appearance.

Carrying it about, she made many inquiries as to what it might be; she found it was

a wheat seed that, if planted able to grow up and, when ripe it, could be made

into flour and then into bread when she discovered that she knew it ought to be

planted, she was so busy hunting food for herself and her family that naturally

she thought she ought not to take time to plant it, so she thought of the pig upon

whom time must hang heavily, and of the cat who had nothing to do, and of the great

fat rat with his idle hours, and she called loudly

“Who will plant the seed?”,

but the pig said, “Not I,” and the cat said, “Not I,” and the rat said, “Not I,”

“Well then,” said the Little Red Hen, “I will,” and she did, then she went on with her daily

duties through the long summer days, scratching for worms and feeding her chicks,

while the pig grew fat and the cat grew fat, and the rat grew fat, and a wheat grew tall

and ready for harvest.

So one day, the Little Red Hen chanced to notice how large the wheat was and that

the grain was bright, so she ran about, calling bristly, “Who will cut the wheat?”

the pig said, “Not I,” the cat said, “Not I,” and the rat said, “Not I,”

“Well then,” said the Little Red Hen, “I will,” and she did; she got the sickle from among

the farmer’s tools in the barn and proceeded to cut off all of the big plants of wheat.

On the ground lay the nicely cut wheat ready to be gathered and threshed but

the newest and yellowest, and most down of Mrs. Hen’s chicks set up a “PPP.”

in the most vigorous fashion proclaiming -to the world at large- but most particularly

to their mother that she was neglecting them.

Poor Little Red Hen, she felt quite bewildered and hardly knew what to turn her

attention was sorely divided between her duty to her children and her duty to the wheat

for which she felt responsible.

So again, in a very hopeful tone, she called out, “Who will thrash the wheat?”

but the pig with a grunt said, “Not I,” and the cat with the meow said, “Not I,”

and the rat, with a squeak, said, “Not I,” so the Little Red Hen looking at it must be 

omitted rather discouraged said, “Well, I will then,” and she did; of course, she had to 

feed her babies first, though, and when she had gotten them all to sleep for their 

afternoon nap, she went out and thrashed the wheat.

Then she called out, “Who will carry the wheat to the mill to be ground?”,

turning their backs with snippy Glee, the pig said, “Not I,” and the cat said, “Not I,”

and the rat said, “Not I,”

so the good little red hen could do nothing but say, “I will then,” and she did, carrying

a sack of wheat, she trudged off to the distant mill; there, she ordered the wheat 

ground into beautiful white flour; when Miller brought her the flour, she walked slowly 

back all the way to her own barnyard in her own Piketty Piketty fashion; she even 

managed in spite of her load to catch a nice juicy worm now and then and had one left

for the babies.

When she reached them, those cunning little fluff balls were so glad to see

their mother for the first time; they really appreciated her after this really strenuous

day, Mrs. hen retired to her slumbers earlier than usual, indeed before the colors

came into the sky.

The Herald is studying of the Sun, her usual bedtime hour she would have liked

to sleep late in the morning, but her chicks join in the morning chorus of the hen

yard drove away all hopes of such a love tree even as she sleeps, lead hath opened one

eye, the thought came to her that today that we must somehow be made into bread

she was not in the habit of making bread, although, of course, anyone can make it

if he or she follows the recipe with care and she knew perfectly well, she could do it

if necessary, so after her children were fed and made sweet and fresh for the day

she hunted the pig, the cat, and the rat, still confident that they would surely help her

someday, she sang out who will make the bread alas for the Little Red Hen once more

her hopes were dashed for the pig said, “Not I” The cat said, “Not I,” and the rat said

“not I,” so the little red hand said, “Once more, I will then,” and she did feel that

she might have known all the time that she would have to do it herself, but she went

and put on a fresh apron and spotless cooks cap, “first of all,” she said, the dough

as was proper when it was time she brought out the molding board and the baking tins

molded the bread, divided it into loaves, and put them into the oven to bake all.

While the cat sat lazily by giggling and chuckling in close at hand, the vain rat

powdered his nose had admired himself in a mirror, in the distance could be heard 

the long-drawn snores of the dozing pig.

At last, the great moment arrived. Our delicious odor wafted upon the autumn breeze

everywhere the barnyard citizen sniffed the air with delight, the Red hen ambled in her

Piketty packet away toward the source of all this excitement, although she appeared

to be perfectly calm in reality, she could only, with difficulty restrain an impulse

to dance and sing for had she not done all the work on this wonderful bread, small

wonder that she was the most excited person in the barnyard; she did not know

whether the bread would be fit to eat but joys of joy when the lovely brown loaves

came out of the oven, they were done to perfection then, probably because

she acquired the habit.

The red hen called, “who will eat the bread?” all the animals in the barnyard were

watching hungrily and smacking their lips in anticipation, the pig said, “I will,”

and the cat said, “I will,” and the rat said, “I will,” but the little red hen said

“no, you won’t, I will,” and she did.

The End