A young hen came near him, pecking at the ground. He was surprised when he thought he heard a “psst”. The farm looked around and saw no one, so he continued his work.
Then he heard it, clear as day. “Hey. Down here.”
The farmer looked down and saw the hen looking at him.
“Did you… did you just talk?” the farmer asked, simultaneously feeling stupid for even considering it.
“Yes. I can talk,” the little hen said.
“That’s amazing,” the farmer exclaimed.
“I want to ask you a favor,” the hen continued.
The farmer shrugged and sat down. “What is it?”
“Well, for a while now I’ve had a story in my head. And I’d like to write a book.”
The farmer considered this. “So you can talk and write?” he asked. “What would you need?”
“Just a typewriter. I can hunt and peck well enough to write for myself.”
The farmer thought it was a pretty crazy idea, setting up a chicken to write a story, but he happened to have an old typewriter that he never used anyway just sitting at the house. So he built a small area for the hen to work with a lamp and the typewriter, and the chicken went to work.
Not long after the chicken approached the farmer in the yard. “I’m done,” she said.
“With your whole story?” the farmer asked.
“Yes. Will you read it?”
The farmer wasn’t much of a reader, but he agreed to read the story. As the rooster crowed the next morning the farmer finished the last page, set down the manuscript, and wept. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever read.
“You have to let me publish this story for you,” the farmer told the hen the next day.
“I don’t mind,” the chicken said. “But perhaps we should publish it under your name. I don’t want to be a spectacle.” They agreed and the farmer mailed the manuscript to several editors. Mere days later he received a phone call. The editor insisted on flying the farmer to New York City to meet him.
“I’ve got to publish this story,” the editor said. “It’s the most amazing thing I’ve read in all my years doing this job.”
The farmer shrugged. “Fine by me,” he said.
“But tell me,” the editor said, sitting forward, “how it is that a man like yourself, late in life, just suddenly writes something so beautiful? How have you hidden yourself for so long?”
The farmer chewed on his cheek for a moment. Then he leaned in, and speaking in a whisper said, “Can I tell you a secret?”
Of course the editor said yes, and the farmer told him of the chicken who could talk, read, and write. The chicken who had written the story.
“That’s preposterous,” the editor said. “Can you prove it?”
The farm said that he could, so the editor put him back on an airplane and the farmer returned with the chicken.
“This farmer says you can talk,” the editor said to the young hen.
“Yes, that’s true,” the hen replied. The editor’s eyes bulged and he nearly fainted.
“Well… well-” he gasped, “if you can talk, did you actually write this story?”
“Yes, I did.”
The editor stood up and paced behind his desk. “We’re playing this all wrong,” he said. “The world must know who wrote this. The world must know that a little chicken wrote perhaps the greatest novel of all time!”
The farmer and his chicken looked at each other.
“Please. Please let me tell the world who the author really is,” he begged, leaning across the desk, his eyes pleading.
“Well, I’m ok with it if you are,” the farmer said to the hen.
“Oh, all right,” the hen agreed.
“Fantastic!” the editor exclaimed. “There’s no doubt in my mind, this is pullet surprise material!”
2 comments:
A farmer was out by his barn, repairing a fence.
A young hen came near him, pecking at the ground. He was surprised when he thought he heard a “psst”. The farm looked around and saw no one, so he continued his work.
Then he heard it, clear as day. “Hey. Down here.”
The farmer looked down and saw the hen looking at him.
“Did you… did you just talk?” the farmer asked, simultaneously feeling stupid for even considering it.
“Yes. I can talk,” the little hen said.
“That’s amazing,” the farmer exclaimed.
“I want to ask you a favor,” the hen continued.
The farmer shrugged and sat down. “What is it?”
“Well, for a while now I’ve had a story in my head. And I’d like to write a book.”
The farmer considered this. “So you can talk and write?” he asked. “What would you need?”
“Just a typewriter. I can hunt and peck well enough to write for myself.”
The farmer thought it was a pretty crazy idea, setting up a chicken to write a story, but he happened to have an old typewriter that he never used anyway just sitting at the house. So he built a small area for the hen to work with a lamp and the typewriter, and the chicken went to work.
Not long after the chicken approached the farmer in the yard. “I’m done,” she said.
“With your whole story?” the farmer asked.
“Yes. Will you read it?”
The farmer wasn’t much of a reader, but he agreed to read the story. As the rooster crowed the next morning the farmer finished the last page, set down the manuscript, and wept. It was the most beautiful thing he had ever read.
“You have to let me publish this story for you,” the farmer told the hen the next day.
“I don’t mind,” the chicken said. “But perhaps we should publish it under your name. I don’t want to be a spectacle.” They agreed and the farmer mailed the manuscript to several editors. Mere days later he received a phone call. The editor insisted on flying the farmer to New York City to meet him.
“I’ve got to publish this story,” the editor said. “It’s the most amazing thing I’ve read in all my years doing this job.”
The farmer shrugged. “Fine by me,” he said.
“But tell me,” the editor said, sitting forward, “how it is that a man like yourself, late in life, just suddenly writes something so beautiful? How have you hidden yourself for so long?”
The farmer chewed on his cheek for a moment. Then he leaned in, and speaking in a whisper said, “Can I tell you a secret?”
Of course the editor said yes, and the farmer told him of the chicken who could talk, read, and write. The chicken who had written the story.
“That’s preposterous,” the editor said. “Can you prove it?”
The farm said that he could, so the editor put him back on an airplane and the farmer returned with the chicken.
“This farmer says you can talk,” the editor said to the young hen.
“Yes, that’s true,” the hen replied. The editor’s eyes bulged and he nearly fainted.
“Well… well-” he gasped, “if you can talk, did you actually write this story?”
“Yes, I did.”
The editor stood up and paced behind his desk. “We’re playing this all wrong,” he said. “The world must know who wrote this. The world must know that a little chicken wrote perhaps the greatest novel of all time!”
The farmer and his chicken looked at each other.
“Please. Please let me tell the world who the author really is,” he begged, leaning across the desk, his eyes pleading.
“Well, I’m ok with it if you are,” the farmer said to the hen.
“Oh, all right,” the hen agreed.
“Fantastic!” the editor exclaimed. “There’s no doubt in my mind, this is pullet surprise material!”
PLW, that was a long way across town just to be run over by a bus.
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