one among the fowls who has so far forgotten what is becoming to a hen
that she plucks out all her feathers and lets the cock see it.”
“Prenez garde aux enfants!” said father owl; “children should not hear
such things.”
“But I must tell our neighbour owl about it; she is such an estimable owl
to talk to.” And with that she flew away.
“Too-whoo! Too-whoo!” they both hooted into the neighbour’s dove-cot
to the doves inside. “Have you heard? Have you heard? Too-whoo! There is
a hen who has plucked out all her feathers for the sake of the cock; she will
freeze to death, if she is not frozen already. Too-whoo!”
“Where? where?” cooed the doves.
“In the neighbour’s yard. I have as good as seen it myself. It is almost
unbecoming to tell the story, but there is no doubt about it.”
“Believe every word of what we tell you,” said the doves, and cooed
down into their poultry-yard. “There is a hen-nay, some say that there are
two-who have plucked out all their feathers, in order not to look like the
others, and to attract the attention of the cock. It is a dangerous game, for
one can easily catch cold and die from fever, and both of these are dead
already.”
“Wake up! wake up!” crowed the cock, and flew upon his board. Sleep
was still in his eyes, but yet he crowed out: “Three hens have died of their
unfortunate love for a cock. They had plucked out all their feathers. It is a
horrible story: I will not keep it to myself, but let it go farther.”
“Let it go farther,” shrieked the bats, and the hens clucked and the cocks
crowed, “Let it go farther! Let it go farther!” In this way the story travelled
from poultry-yard to poultry-yard, and at last came back to the place from
which it had really started.
“Five hens,” it now ran, “have plucked out all their feathers to show
which of them had grown leanest for love of the cock, and then they all
