“No, you are not!” cried the hen, in some excitement. “Men don’t come out of eggs. You ought to be a chicken, but there is some mistake somewhere. Can’t you get back into your shell, and—a—change your clothes, or do something?”
“I’m afraid not,” said the little man (for he was a man). “I don’t seem to be able to move much; and besides, I don’t think I was meant for a chicken. I don’t feel like a chicken.”
“Oh, but look at your shell!” cried the poor hen. “Consider the example you are setting to all these eggs! There’s no knowing what they will hatch into if they see this sort of thing going on. I will lend you some feathers,” she added, coaxingly, “and perhaps I can scratch round and find you a worm, though my legs are pretty stiff. Come, be a good chicken, and get back into your shell!”
“I don’t like worms,” said the little man, decidedly. “And I am not a chicken, I tell you. Did you ever see a chicken with a hat on?”
“N—no,” replied the hen, doubtfully, “I don’t think I ever did.”
“Well, then!” said the little man, triumphantly.
And the hen was silent, for one cannot argue well when one is stuffed.
The little man now looked about him in a leisurely way, and presently his eyes fell on the great white egg.
“Is that your egg?” he asked, politely.
The hen appreciated the compliment, but replied, rather sadly, “No, it is not. I do not even know whose egg it is. I expect to watch over the eggs in a general way, and I hope I know my duty; but I really do not feel as if I could manage a chicken of that size. Besides,” she added, with a glance at the black hat and the bottle-green coat, “how do I know that it will be a chicken? It may hatch out a—a—sea-serpent, for aught I know.”