The Yellow Hen
A strange noise awoke Dorothy, who opened her eyes to find that day haddawned and the sun was shining brightly in a clear sky. She had beendreaming that she was back in Kansas again, and playing in the oldbarn-yard with the calves and pigs and chickens all around her; and atfirst, as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she really imagined shewas there.
"Kut-kut-kut, ka-daw-kut! Kut-kut-kut, ka-daw-kut!"
Ah; here again was the strange noise that had awakened her. Surely itwas a hen cackling! But her wide-open eyes first saw, through the slatsof the coop, the blue waves of the ocean, now calm and placid, and herthoughts flew back to the past night, so full of danger and discomfort.Also she began to remember that she was a waif of the storm, adrift upona treacherous and unknown sea.
"Kut-kut-kut, ka-daw-w-w--kut!"
"What's that?" cried Dorothy, starting to her feet.
"Why, I've just laid an egg, that's all," replied a small, but sharp anddistinct voice, and looking around her the little girl discovered ayellow hen squatting in the opposite corner of the coop.
"Dear me!" she exclaimed, in surprise; "have _you_ been here all night,too?"
"Of course," answered the hen, fluttering her wings and yawning. "Whenthe coop blew away from the ship I clung fast to this corner, with clawsand beak, for I knew if I fell into the water I'd surely be drowned.Indeed, I nearly drowned, as it was, with all that water washing overme. I never was so wet before in my life!"
"Yes," agreed Dorothy, "it was pretty wet, for a time, I know. But doyou feel comfor'ble now?"
"Not very. The sun has helped to dry my feathers, as it has your dress,and I feel better since I laid my morning egg. But what's to become ofus, I should like to know, afloat on this big pond?"
"I'd like to know that, too," said Dorothy. "But, tell me; how does ithappen that you are able to talk? I thought hens could only cluck andcackle."
"Why, as for that," answered the yellow hen thoughtfully, "I've cluckedand cackled all my life, and never spoken a word before this morning,that I can remember. But when you asked a question, a minute ago, itseemed the most natural thing in the world to answer you. So I spoke,and I seem to keep on speaking, just as you and other human beings do.Strange, isn't it?"
"Very," replied Dorothy. "If we were in the Land of Oz, I wouldn't thinkit so queer, because many of the animals can talk in that fairy country.But out here in the ocean must be a good long way from Oz."
"How is my grammar?" asked the yellow hen, anxiously. "Do I speak quiteproperly, in your judgment?"
"Yes," said Dorothy, "you do very well, for a beginner."
"I'm glad to know that," continued the yellow hen, in a confidentialtone; "because, if one is going to talk, it's best to talk correctly.The red rooster has often said that my cluck and my cackle were quiteperfect; and now it's a comfort to know I am talking properly."
"I'm beginning to get hungry," remarked Dorothy. "It's breakfast time;but there's no breakfast."
"You may have my egg," said the yellow hen. "I don't care for it, youknow."
"Don't you want to hatch it?" asked the little girl, in surprise.
"No, indeed; I never care to hatch eggs unless I've a nice snug nest, insome quiet place, with a baker's dozen of eggs under me. That'sthirteen, you know, and it's a lucky number for hens. So you may as welleat this egg."
"Oh, I couldn't _poss'bly_ eat it, unless it was cooked," exclaimedDorothy. "But I'm much obliged for your kindness, just the same."
"Don't mention it, my dear," answered the hen, calmly, and began pruningher feathers.
For a moment Dorothy stood looking out over the wide sea. She was stillthinking of the egg, though; so presently she asked:
"Why do you lay eggs, when you don't expect to hatch them?"
"It's a habit I have," replied the yellow hen. "It has always been mypride to lay a fresh egg every morning, except when I'm moulting. Inever feel like having my morning cackle till the egg is properly laid,and without the chance to cackle I would not be happy."
"It's strange," said the girl, reflectively; "But as I'm not a hen Ican't be 'spected to understand that."
"Certainly not, my dear."
Then Dorothy fell silent again. The yellow hen was some company, and abit of comfort, too; but it was dreadfully lonely out on the big ocean,nevertheless.
After a time the hen flew up and perched upon the topmost slat of thecoop, which was a little above Dorothy's head when she was sitting uponthe bottom, as she had been doing for some moments past.
"Why, we are not far from land!" exclaimed the hen.
"Where? Where is it?" cried Dorothy, jumping up in great excitement.
"Over there a little way," answered the hen, nodding her head in acertain direction. "We seem to be drifting toward it, so that beforenoon we ought to find ourselves upon dry land again."
"I shall like that!" said Dorothy, with a little sigh, for her feet andlegs were still wetted now and then by the sea-water that came throughthe open slats.
THE YELLOW HEN]
"So shall I," answered her companion. "There is nothing in the world somiserable as a wet hen."
The land, which they seemed to be rapidly approaching, since it grewmore distinct every minute, was quite beautiful as viewed by the littlegirl in the floating hen-coop. Next to the water was a broad beach ofwhite sand and gravel, and farther back were several rocky hills, whilebeyond these appeared a strip of green trees that marked the edge of aforest. But there were no houses to be seen, nor any sign of people whomight inhabit this unknown land.
"I hope we shall find something to eat," said Dorothy, looking eagerlyat the pretty beach toward which they drifted. "It's long past breakfasttime, now."
"I'm a trifle hungry, myself," declared the yellow hen.
"Why don't you eat the egg?" asked the child. "You don't need to haveyour food cooked, as I do."
"Do you take me for a cannibal?" cried the hen, indignantly. "I do notknow what I have said or done that leads you to insult me!"
"I beg your pardon, I'm sure Mrs.--Mrs.--by the way, may I inquire yourname, ma'am?" asked the little girl.
"My name is Bill," said the yellow hen, somewhat gruffly.
"Bill! Why, that's a boy's name."
"What difference does that make?"
"You're a lady hen, aren't you?"
"Of course. But when I was first hatched out no one could tell whether Iwas going to be a hen or a rooster; so the little boy at the farm whereI was born called me Bill, and made a pet of me because I was the onlyyellow chicken in the whole brood. When I grew up, and he found that Ididn't crow and fight, as all the roosters do, he did not think tochange my name, and every creature in the barn-yard, as well as thepeople in the house, knew me as 'Bill.' So Bill I've always been called,and Bill is my name."
"But it's all wrong, you know," declared Dorothy, earnestly; "and, ifyou don't mind, I shall call you 'Billina.' Putting the 'eena' on theend makes it a girl's name, you see."
"Oh, I don't mind it in the least," returned the yellow hen. "It doesn'tmatter at all what you call me, so long as I know the name means _me_."
"Very well, Billina. _My_ name is Dorothy Gale--just Dorothy to myfriends and Miss Gale to strangers. You may call me Dorothy, if youlike. We're getting very near the shore. Do you suppose it is too deepfor me to wade the rest of the way?"
"Wait a few minutes longer. The sunshine is warm and pleasant, and weare in no hurry."
"But my feet are all wet and soggy," said the girl. "My dress is dryenough, but I won't feel real comfor'ble till I get my feet dried."
She waited; however, as the hen advised, and before long the big woodencoop grated gently on the sandy beach and the dangerous voyage was over.
It did not take the castaways long to reach the shore, you may be sure.The yellow hen flew to the sands at once, but Dorothy had to climb overthe high slats. Still, for a country girl, that was not much of a feat,and as soon as she was safe ashore Dorothy drew off her
wet shoes andstockings and spread them upon the sun-warmed beach to dry.
Then she sat down and watched Billina, who was pick-pecking away withher sharp bill in the sand and gravel, which she scratched up and turnedover with her strong claws.
"What are you doing?" asked Dorothy.
"Getting my breakfast, of course," murmured the hen, busily peckingaway.
"HOW DREADFUL!" EXCLAIMED DOROTHY]
"What do you find?" inquired the girl, curiously.
"Oh, some fat red ants, and some sand-bugs, and once in a while a tinycrab. They are very sweet and nice, I assure you."
"How dreadful!" exclaimed Dorothy, in a shocked voice.
"What is dreadful?" asked the hen, lifting her head to gaze with onebright eye at her companion.
"Why, eating live things, and horrid bugs, and crawly ants. You ought tobe _'shamed_ of yourself!"
"Goodness me!" returned the hen, in a puzzled tone; "how queer you are,Dorothy! Live things are much fresher and more wholesome than dead ones,and you humans eat all sorts of dead creatures."
"We don't!" said Dorothy.
"You do, indeed," answered Billina. "You eat lambs and sheep and cowsand pigs and even chickens."
"But we cook 'em," said Dorothy, triumphantly.
"What difference does that make?"
"A good deal," said the girl, in a graver tone. "I can't just 'splainthe diff'rence, but it's there. And, anyhow, we never eat such dreadfulthings as _bugs_."
"But you eat the chickens that eat the bugs," retorted the yellow hen,with an odd cackle. "So you are just as bad as we chickens are."
This made Dorothy thoughtful. What Billina said was true enough, and italmost took away her appetite for breakfast. As for the yellow hen, shecontinued to peck away at the sand busily, and seemed quite contentedwith her bill-of-fare.
Finally, down near the water's edge, Billina stuck her bill deep intothe sand, and then drew back and shivered.
"Ow!" she cried. "I struck metal, that time, and it nearly broke mybeak."
"It prob'bly was a rock," said Dorothy, carelessly.
"Nonsense. I know a rock from metal, I guess," said the hen. "There's adifferent feel to it."
"But there couldn't be any metal on this wild, deserted seashore,"persisted the girl. "Where's the place? I'll dig it up, and prove to youI'm right."
Billina showed her the place where she had "stubbed her bill," as sheexpressed it, and Dorothy dug away the sand until she felt somethinghard. Then, thrusting in her hand, she pulled the thing out, anddiscovered it to be a large sized golden key--rather old, but stillbright and of perfect shape.
"What did I tell you?" cried the hen, with a cackle of triumph. "Can Itell metal when I bump into it, or is the thing a rock?"
"It's metal, sure enough," answered the child, gazing thoughtfully atthe curious thing she had found. "I think it is pure gold, and it musthave lain hidden in the sand for a long time. How do you suppose it camethere, Billina? And what do you suppose this mysterious key unlocks?"
"I can't say," replied the hen. "You ought to know more about locks andkeys than I do."
Dorothy glanced around. There was no sign of any house in that part ofthe country, and she reasoned that every key must fit a lock and everylock must have a purpose. Perhaps the key had been lost by somebody wholived far away, but had wandered on this very shore.
Musing on these things the girl put the key in the pocket of her dressand then slowly drew on her shoes and stockings, which the sun had fullydried.
"I b'lieve, Billina," she said, "I'll have a look 'round, and see if Ican find some breakfast."
Ozma of Oz Page 3
