There was something strange about that egg. She had never seen one like it. No hen that ever lived could lay such a monstrous thing; even a turkey could not produce one of half the size.
Whence could it have come? She remembered stories that she had heard, when a pullet, of huge birds as tall as the hen-house, called ostriches. Could this be an ostrich egg? If it was, she could not possibly be expected to take care of the chick.
“The idea!” she said. “Why, it will be as big as I am!”
At this moment a hand appeared in the window. It was the shopkeeper’s hand, and it set down before the hen an object which filled her with amazement and consternation.
It looked like an egg: that is, it was shaped and coloured like an egg; but from the top, which was broken, protruded a head which certainly was not that of a chicken.
The head wore a black hat; it had a round, rosy face, something like the shopkeeper’s, and what could be seen of the shoulders was clad in a bottle-green coat, with a bright-red cravat tied under the pink chin.
The little black eyes met the hen’s troubled glance with a bright and cheerful look.
“Good-morning!” said the creature. “It’s a fine day!”
“What are you?” asked the hen, rather sternly. “I don’t approve of your appearance at all. Do you call yourself a chicken, pray?”
“Why, no,” said the thing, looking down at itself. “I—I am a man, I think. Eh? I have a hat, you see.”