The tufted fair one heard the remark, and called out spitefully from a
distance: "If certain people were not ignorant country bumpkins, they
would be able to tell a good story themselves."
"That remark can't apply to me, for I know a great number of stories,"
replied the common hen, turning her head on one side to show her
contempt. "For instance: once upon a time there was a hen who laid
nothing but soft-shelled eggs--"
"You can't mean _me_ by that story," said the tufted one, "for I have
only laid one soft-shelled egg in my whole life. So there! But do tell
me how your interesting story ends--I am so anxious to hear the end."
"You know that best yourself," retorted the other.
"Now I'm sure, dear Father Cock, you could tell us something really
amusing if you would be so kind," said the second common hen, who was
standing near him. "Those two make one's life a burthen, with their
everlasting wrangling and bickering."
"Hush!" said the cock, who was standing motionless with one leg in the
air, an attitude he often assumed when any very hard thinking had to be
done; "I was just trying to recollect one."
After a pause, he said in a solemn voice: "I will tell you the terrible
tale of the troubles of 'The Hens of Hencastle.
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