“Well, stories can’t be all alike,” remarked Mrs. Meadows. “You might as well expect a fiddle to play one tune.”
“Tell us the kind of story you like best,” said Buster John to Mr. Rabbit.
“No, not now,” responded Mr. Rabbit. “I’ll do that some other time. I happened to think just now of a little circumstance that I used to hear mentioned when I was younger.
“In the country next door there used to be a great many chickens. Some were of the barnyard breed, some were of the kind they call game, some were black, some were white, some were brown, some were speckled, and some had their feathers curled the wrong way. Among all these there was one whose name, as well as I can remember, was Mrs. Blue Hen.”
“Was she really blue?” Sweetest Susan inquired.
“Well, not an indigo blue,” replied Mr. Rabbit, after reflecting a moment, “nor yet a sky blue. She was just a plain, dull, every-day blue. But, such as she was, she was very fine. She belonged to one of the first families and moved in the very best circles. She was trim-looking, so I’ve heard said, and, as she grew older, came to have a very bad temper, so much so that she used to fly at a hawk if he came near her premises. Some of her neighbors used to whisper it around that she tried to crow like a rooster, but this was after she had grown old and hard-headed.
“When Mrs. Blue Hen was growing up, she was very nice and particular. She couldn’t bear to get water on her feet, and she was always shaking the dust from her clothes. Some said she was finicky, and some said she was nervous. Once, when she fanned out little Billy Bantam, who called on her one day, a great many of her acquaintances said she would never settle down and make a good housekeeper.
“But after awhile Mrs. Blue Hen concluded that it was about time for her to have a family of her own, so she went away off from the other chickens and made her a nest in the middle of a thick briar patch. She made her a nest there and laid an egg. It was new and white, and Mrs. Blue Hen was very proud of it. She was so proud, in fact, that, although she had made up her mind to make no fuss over it, she went running and cackling toward the house, just as any common hen would do. She made so much fuss that away down in the branch Mr. Willy Weasel winked at Miss Mimy Mink.
“‘Do you hear that?’ says he.
“‘I never heard anything plainer in my life,’ says she.