The Little Red Hen

On a small farm at the end of a long lane, there lived a little red hen.

She lived with a cat, who was fond of sleeping, and a rat, who was fond of complaining, and a pig, who was fond of both.

One morning the little red hen was scratching about in the yard when she found something small and golden in the dust.

“Look,” she said. “A grain of wheat.”

The cat opened one eye. The rat did not look up. The pig made a noise like a slow puddle.

“If I plant this grain of wheat,” said the little red hen, “we could have bread. Who will help me plant it?”

“Not I,” said the cat, and went back to sleep.

“Not I,” said the rat, who was busy being tired.

“Not I,” said the pig, who was busy being comfortable.

“Then I shall plant it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

Through the summer

The wheat grew. It grew slowly at first, then all at once, until there was a patch of it standing tall and gold at the edge of the yard, whispering when the wind went through.

“The wheat is ready,” said the little red hen. “Who will help me cut it?”

“Not I,” said the cat.

“Not I,” said the rat.

“Not I,” said the pig.

“Then I shall cut it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did, all afternoon, until her wings ached.

Then the wheat had to be threshed, which means shaking the grain loose from the stalks, and it is dusty, itchy work.

“Who will help me thresh the wheat?”

“Not I.” — “Not I.” — “Not I.”

“Then I shall thresh it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did.

Then the grain had to go to the mill to be ground into flour, and the mill was a long way down the lane.

“Who will help me carry the grain to the mill?”

Three voices, from three comfortable places: “Not I.”

“Then I shall carry it myself,” said the little red hen. And she did, there and back, in the rain.

The bread

At last there was a sack of soft white flour standing in the kitchen.

“Now,” said the little red hen. “Who will help me bake the bread?”

The cat stretched. The rat sighed. The pig rolled over.

“Not I,” they said. “Not I. Not I.”

“Then I shall bake it myself,” said the little red hen.

And she did. She mixed and kneaded and waited, and mixed and kneaded and waited again, and then she put the loaf into the oven.

Well.

You know what bread smells like when it is nearly ready. It goes everywhere. It gets into the yard and under the door and up the stairs and into the dreams of anyone sleeping nearby.

The cat arrived first, walking as though she had been coming anyway. The rat arrived next, saying he had happened to be passing. The pig arrived last but fastest.

“Who will help me eat the bread?” asked the little red hen.

“I will!” said the cat.

“I will!” said the rat.

“I will,” said the pig, with feeling.

The little red hen looked at the three of them for a long moment.

“I planted it by myself,” she said. “And cut it, and threshed it, and carried it to the mill, and baked it. So I shall eat it myself.”

And she did. Every warm slice of it, at her own table, while three faces watched from the doorway.

The next spring, the little red hen found another grain of wheat in the dust of the yard.

“Who will help me plant it?” she asked.

And this time — you may not believe it, but it is how the story goes — three voices said, all together:

“I will.”