“’Twas in the dead of darksome, dreadful, dreary night, when the Little Red Hen set forth on her long, lonely, unfrequented road to the Mill. The Banshees howled, the weird Sisters of the Night made desperate attempts to seize the Grain of Corn—Next!”
“Which, for safe keeping the fearless Little Red Hen had already clapped into her own bill—just like this! So let the Banshees howl, the Weird Sisters Dree their Weird—for Only Three Grains of Corn, Alfy! Only Three Grains of Corn!” cried Monty, passing his empty plate; “and I’ll grind them in a mill that’ll beat the Hen’s all hollow! while Jane Potter—next!”
“For the prisoner was terrified by the sounds upon the roof and after brief deliberation and close investigation he came to the conclusion, ’twas a snare and a delusion to toy with imagination and fear assassination till the hallucination became habituation and his mental aberration get the better of his determination toward analyzation of the sound upon the roof. Of the pat, pat, patter and the clat, clat, clatter of small claws upon the roof! Then with loud cachinnation—Next!”
“To drive the Little Red Hen off from the roof he sprang up and bumped his head against it; and the act was so unexpected by said Hen that she flew off, choked on her grain of corn and—Next!” cried Jim, while everybody shouted and Mrs. Calvert declared that she had never heard such a string of long words tied together and asked:
“How could you think of them all, Jane?”
“Oh! easily enough. I’d rather read the dictionary than any other book. I’ve only a school one yet but I’ve most enough saved to buy an Unabridged. Then——”
“Oh! then deliver us from the learned Jane Potter! Problem: If a small school dictionary can work such havoc with a young maid’s brain will the Unabridged drive her to a lunatic asylum? or to the mill where the Little Red Hen—Next!” put in Herbert, as his contribution.
“The little Red Hen being now corn-fed, and the Mill a thing she never would reach, the Mouse and the Grouse thought best to put an end to her checkered career and boil her in a pot over a slow fire; because that’s the way to make a fowl who had traveled and endured so much grow tender and soft-hearted and fit to eat, corn and all, popped or unpopped—Pass the pan, Alfaretta! while the pot boils and the Little Red Hen—Next!” continued Littlejohn Smith, with a readiness which was unexpected; while Molly B. took up the nonsense with the remark that:
“The Little Red Hen has as many lives as a cat. All our great-great-great-grandmothers have heard about her. She was living ages and—and eons ago! She was in the Ark with Noah—in my toy Ark, anyway; and being made of wood she didn’t boil tender as had been hoped; also, all the lovely red she wore came off in the boil and—what’s happening? ’Tother side the ring where Dolly Doodles is holding Luna with both hands and staring—staring—staring—Oh! My! What’s happening to our own Little Red Hen!”
What, indeed!