The Hens Of Hencastle
by
(Translated from the German of VICTOR BLUeTHGEN.)
What a hot, drowsy afternoon it was.
The blazing sun shone with such a glare upon the farmyard that it was almost unbearable, and there was not a vestige of grass or any green thing to relieve the eye or cast a little shade.
But the fowls in the back yard were not disturbed by the heat the least bit in the world, for they had plenty of time in which to doze, and they were fond of taking a siesta in the hottest place that could be found. Certainly the hottest place that afternoon, by far, was the yard in which they reposed.
There were five of them–a cock and four hens. Two of the hens were renowned throughout the whole village, for they wore tufts of feathers on their heads instead of the usual red combs; and the cock was very proud of having such distinguished-looking wives.
Besides which, he was naturally a very stately bird himself in appearance, and had a splendid blackish-green tail and a golden speckled hackle, which shone and glistened in the sun. He had also won many sharp battles with certain young cocks in the neighbourhood, whom curiosity about the tufted foreigners had attracted to the yard. The consequence of these triumphs was that he held undisputed dominion as far as the second fence from the farmyard, and whenever he shut his eyes and sounded his war-clarion, the whole of his rivals made off as fast as wings and legs could carry them.
So the five sat or stood by themselves in the yard, dozing in the sunshine, and they felt bored.
During the middle of the day they had managed to get some winks of sleep, but now the farmer’s men began to thresh in a barn close by, making noise enough to wake the dead, so there was small chance of well-organized fowls being able to sleep through the din.
“I wish some one would tell a story,” said one of the common hens, as she ruffled all her feathers up on end, and then shook them straight again, for coolness. “I am tired of scrabbling in the dust, and fly-catching is an amusement only suited to sparrows and such vulgar birds.”
This was a hit at one of the foreign hens, who had wandered away a little and was pecking at flies on the wall. The two common hens were very fond of vexing the foreign ones, for their feelings were hurt at being reckoned less beautiful and rare.
The tufted fair one heard the remark, and called out spitefully from a distance: “If certain people were not ignorant country bumpkins, they would be able to tell a good story themselves.”
“That remark can’t apply to me, for I know a great number of stories,” replied the common hen, turning her head on one side to show her contempt. “For instance: once upon a time there was a hen who laid nothing but soft-shelled eggs–“
“You can’t mean me by that story,” said the tufted one, “for I have only laid one soft-shelled egg in my whole life. So there! But do tell me how your interesting story ends–I am so anxious to hear the end.”
“You know that best yourself,” retorted the other.
“Now I’m sure, dear Father Cock, you could tell us something really amusing if you would be so kind,” said the second common hen, who was standing near him. “Those two make one’s life a burthen, with their everlasting wrangling and bickering.”
“Hush!” said the cock, who was standing motionless with one leg in the air, an attitude he often assumed when any very hard thinking had to be done; “I was just trying to recollect one.”
After a pause, he said in a solemn voice: “I will tell you the terrible tale of the troubles of ‘The Hens of Hencastle.’
“Once upon a time–it was the village fair week, when, as you know, every one eats and drinks as much as he possibly can, and consequently a great many animals are killed,–the farmer’s cook came into the fowlyard, and after carefully looking over all the chickens, remarked that seven of them would be twisting merrily on the spit next morning. On hearing this, all the fowls were plunged into the deepest despair, for no one felt sure that he would not be of the seven, and no one could guess how the victims would be chosen. Two young cockerels, in their deep perplexity, at last went to the yard-dog, Flaps by name, who was a very great friend of theirs, and to him they cackled out their woes.