True Adventures of Little Red Hen
A fairy tale for adults who grew up with the wrong version! (Conclusion)
Today, the conclusion of the tale -- to read from the beginning (3 posts), click here.
5. Molly
A loud “Moo-oo!” shook her. The cow was finally coming over to help! Little Red Hen stood up on the pile of wheat on the wagon and craned her neck to see the cow.
“Almost there, now, Bessie, come along, there, you’re such a beautiful cow, now keep on, there we go, we’re going to get some nice warm milk, now aren’t we, Bessie, come on, up we go, that’s it, into the barn, where’s your stall, why you know exactly where to go, don’t you, you fine, fine cow, you . . .” came a little girl’s voice, and all the while, Little Red Hen craned her neck and stared, first with one eye, then the other, as a little girl with bouncy red hair led the cow just past the hen and up into the barn.
The hen stared indignantly at the barn door and then settled down to sit on her wheat and listen to the gentle voice of the little girl as she cooed to the cow.
“Huh!” clucked Little Red Hen. “She probably didn’t see me. She’ll come out soon and help me.” And a few minutes later, she added, settling onto her wheat as if it were a nest, “Pretty soon now, she’ll come out, and see me, and help me get my wheat home.” And she waited for her new friend, the cow.
But it was the little girl who came out. Her red curls jiggled with every jaunty step as she rounded the corner out the barn door and stopped dead, right where the little red wagon used to be. A splash of white milk spilled from the top of her metal milk jug.
“What? Where is it?” she said to herself. Then, louder, “Where is it?!” She put down the milk jug and looked all around.
When she spotted the red wagon, she smiled. “Well there it is! How do you like that! Must have rolled down there, right into the volunteer wheat Mr. Begman was talking about. I suppose someone or other bumped into it and . . . now who are you?” She stopped, her gaze fixed on the odd sight of a red hen sitting on top of a pile of wheat inside the wagon.
“Well, if this isn’t the strangest thing! You get out of my wagon! Shoo! Shoo!” and she waved her arms at Little Red Hen.
But there was no way this little girl was going to shoo away a determined hen like Little Red! Little Red Hen cackled and clucked and pecked in the air, stood up, sat down, and made very clear that she was not going anywhere without her treasure.
The little girl stopped waving her arms and caught her breath.
“You’re staying put right there, aren’t you, little hen?” said the girl. “Well, let’s see what you do if I take hold of this handle and pull . . . the wagon up here . . . to the barn. Look at that! You’re sitting pretty as a peacock on that pile of wheat!”
“She’s helping me take my wheat home!” cackled Little Red Hen excitedly.
The girl stopped to size up the situation for a moment. “Well now if you’re going to stay right there, you little red hen, then I’m going to sweep up all this wheat into your pile and--there, now, you stay right there--and I can lift up this . . grrr . . . heavy milk jug, and put it down right . . . there, and we can share the wagon, OK?”
Little Red Hen clucked and kept her eye on the girl and nestled into her pile of wheat. The girl laughed, high and clear up against the bright blue sky. Behind her, a gust of wind puffed up some dust on the tractor path.
Molly took hold of the wagon’s handle and started to pull it down the path. Little Red Hen clucked and cackled, so happy that someone was finally helping her take the wheat home to her cupboard.
Molly turned around and smiled at the hen. “Are you talking to me? Well, of course you are. Here we are on a nice little journey together and we haven’t even been introduced. I’m Molly. And you, I know, you are Little Red Hen. That’s who you are. Very nice to meet you. We’re a little bit alike, you and I. Did you know that? You’re a little red hen, and I’m a girl with red hair, so they call me Little Red Molly sometimes. That’s funny, isn’t it? And here we are with my little red wagon, too!
“Very nice wheat you have there. And I should know, too, cause my daddy’s a miller. Don’t you know what a miller is, little hen? Why, a miller grinds things up. Like your wheat there. He can make that into flour, easy. He does it all the time. Even I get to do it sometimes. Would you like me to do that for you? OK. That would be fun. Wait till we get to the mill and I’ll see if I can. We can ask my daddy. But first I’ll have to bring up the milk.”
When they arrived at the mill, Little Red Hen cackled and stood up and sat down and eyed her surroundings with one eye and then the other, and was very nervous because that long ride did not take her through the barnyard and this was not her home at all.
But she liked Molly. She liked how the girl talked to her the whole way and how her red curls bounced with every step and how she looked back at her cheerfully now and then just to check on her.
When Molly came back to the wagon after she had taken the milk jug away, she stepped up to the hen and said, “Now how about that wheat? Do you want me to make some flour for you? Daddy said I could. I’ll bet Mrs. Begman would love to have a little bag of flour from your wheat. What do you think? I’ll just put it in this bag and--steady there, hey, don’t peck at me! Here, I’ll leave you some to have for yourself. OK, that’s right, you eat some of that nice wheat.” And she took the bag of wheat in to the mill, leaving Little Red Hen to peck at a little leftover pile, and strut and fret about all the seeds that Molly had taken away.
But Little Red Hen was not about to leave the wheat she still had, especially not in this strange place. So she waited right where she was, and she heard lots of unfamiliar creakings and crackings from the many tree branches being tossed about by the breezes, and the odd, steady splashing and gurgling of the stream flowing and sparkling in the sun at the bottom of the hill.
A dark door opened and Molly burst into the sunshine carrying a bag. Humming a song, she strode up the hill to the road, and gave Little Red Hen a big smile. She flung the bag into the wagon right in front of the hen and sighed cheerfully.
“There’s your flour, Little Red Hen! All ready for Mrs. Begman to bake. She’ll be very happy to hear that you got it for her. I’m going to tell her that you grew it and harvested it and ground it all yourself! She’ll love that! She’ll give a big hearty laugh and pat me on my shoulder and go on about my stories and my animals. But she doesn’t know the half of it. She doesn’t know how many animal friends I have. I tried to tell her about my friend the pig playing the fiddle, and Mrs. Begman had tears in her eyes from laughing at my silliness. And the geese! Old Mother Goose and her daughter, Longyellow Goose--you know them, don’t you? They are so entertaining to talk to. It’s funny how they walk, too. Maybe they’re not well dressed, but for rhymes they bring out the best. And every time I say some poems, the geese already seem to know ‘em.”
As Molly chatted, Little Red Hen leaned over, sniffed the flour bag, and pecked a hole in it to taste the fine powder inside. Molly was pulling the wagon toward the Begman farm and into the barnyard. Little Red Hen grew happier the more she recognized her surroundings, and when they entered the barnyard, she could hardly contain her excitement. She even forgot to keep nibbling the wheat powder. All told, it was a very pleasant little journey.
Molly stopped the wagon near the back of the farmhouse, and started to pick up the bag, but flour started spilling out of a big hole. She put the bag of flour back down and laughed and shook her finger at the hen.
“You naughty hen,” she laughed. “I can’t give this flour to Mrs. Begman. Besides, she’s probably busy getting herself and Mr. Begman ready for their trip into town tonight.”
She picked up the handle and turned the wagon around, pulling it back across the barnyard.
“I’m going to let you have the flour if you like it so much, Little Red Hen. It’s going to be a present from Little Red Molly, OK? Let’s get you home and I’ll take it right inside for you.”
Before Molly even stopped the wagon, Little Red Hen had jumped out and started scurrying back and forth between the wagon and her house. Carefully, Molly carried the torn bag of flour inside and laid it down.
Little Red Hen grabbed hold of Molly’s skirt and pulled her toward the door, and Molly followed her out to the wagon. The hen pecked at the little pile of wheat still in the wagon and looked peevishly at Molly, then pecked at the wheat again. Little Molly understood. She gathered the leftover wheat into her apron, brought it into Little Red Hen’s house, and filled up her cupboard.
Then Molly thought of something special. She decided to show Little Red Hen how to make some bread. She showed her how to mix up the water and flour and the other ingredients, and the hen even offered an egg to make egg bread with. They kneaded the dough and put it into pans.
Then Molly started the oven heating up, and headed for the door.
Little Red Hen tugged at her skirt and cackled. “Won’t you help me bake the bread, Molly?” asked the hen.
But Molly was out the door now. “I have to get back home, Little Red. I never thought my milking day would be so much fun. Don’t you forget Little Red Molly, OK? I know you can’t come see me, but I’ll come visit you on milking days. Bye!” And with that, Molly was gone.
Little Red Hen made her way sadly back inside and fell asleep.
6. Friends
A little while later, when Little Red Hen woke up, she was startled to see that the bread had grown twice as big as when she had gone to sleep. She scurried over to the bread pans in a panic and pushed them into the oven. Then she stepped outside.
It wasn’t very long before delicious aromas came wafting out of her house. It was supper time.
Pretty soon, Furry Gray Cat stopped by. “Boy, that smells good, Little Red. What are you making?”
“Bread,” said Little Red Hen. “From the wheat I found in the barn.”
“Mm-mm,” said Furry Gray Cat.
Then along came a dog. A little white dog carrying a bone and prancing through the barnyard. It was Waggy White Puppy.
“Ooh, that smells good,” said the puppy. “What is it?”
“Fresh bread,” said the hen, strutting back and forth. “I planted the seeds myself.”
“Oh, boy,” said Waggy White Puppy.
They all turned when they heard the snorting voice of Big Pink Pig grunting to herself as she made her way to the growing group.
“Mm-mm, bread!” said Big Pink Pig with a twinkle in her blue eyes. “When’s it going to be ready?”
“In a while,” said Little Red Hen. “It’s brand new, fresh bread, from my very own wheat.”
The cat slipped silently to the opposite side of the big pig from the puppy, who sat wiggling his tail; meanwhile, the pig diddled her favorite tune for a little while, until she was joined by the musical buzzing of a couple of bees.
Little Red Hen spotted the bees right away, and for a moment thought they looked tasty until she saw the stripes and knew that the stingers were not far behind. It was Zzyzzy and Zack.
“Smells like bread,” they buzzed. “You sure have pizzazz, Little Red Hen, and you’re no lazybones, either!”
“Yes, fresh bread from my wheat,” called the hen proudly, “the same wheat I buried and grew to seed all myself!”
Squeezing between the dog and the pig came the bill of a duck. Quick White Duck pushed right to the front of the waiting animals, followed by Quacky White Duck and Quaky Little Duckling. They sat patiently and didn’t say anything at all.
“Fresh bread,” announced the hen to the ducks. “I planted the wheat and grew it and collected it and it took a lot of work, too.”
The ducks waited expectantly with everyone else.
“What’s all this?” came a deep, lowing voice. “You’re all way too-oo early for the dance, aren’t you?” It was Bessie, the cow.
All the animals turned and excitedly told Bessie, in a big noisy ruckus of meowing and barking and snorting and buzzing and quacking, all about Little Red Hen’s fresh bread and how it was just about ready and was going to be warm and delicious, and how Bessie should stay and have some to eat--until Little Red Hen, craning her neck and pecking the air and strutting this way and that like a sentry, and eyeing everyone first with one eye and then the other, finally let out a loud, shrill cackle, and everyone stopped. Waggy White Puppy panted, “Is it ready?”
The hen eyed the crowd up and down and smelled the bread and thought about how Furry Gray Cat had gone fishing instead of helping her find the wheat, and how Waggy White Puppy had gone to bury a bone instead of helping her carry her wheat to the field, and how Big Pink Pig had played the fiddle rather than help her bury the seeds. She remembered how Zzyzzy and Zack cared only about flowers and dancing but would not help her water her crop, and how the ducks were happy to play hide and seek but had no time to help her collect the ripe grain. How close the cow had come to helping her take her wheat home, but instead, she had just passed right by and gone into the barn.
“It’s ready!” shouted Little Red Hen, and all the animals pressed forward with excitement. “But,” she continued, pacing back and forth, “I found that wheat and planted it and grew it and harvested it and ground it and brought it home and made dough and kneaded and baked it! All myself! And you didn’t! So I’m going to eat it! And you’re not!” And she marched into her little red house and slammed the door with a bang.
She took out the hot bread and marvelled at how beautiful it looked and how delicious it smelled and how much of it there was.
She pecked out a little taste of it, but it was burning hot. She shook her head and sent the hot crumb of bread flying.
Then she heard a knock at the door.
“Go away!” she shouted. “This bread is not for you!”
“I don't want any bread,” came a quiet voice.
“What do you want!” cackled the hen.
“Just your story.”
Little Red Hen was very puzzled at this. She opened the door a crack and there, waiting patiently, was my mother, pen in hand, as usual.
“Mother Goose! What do you want? And why right now, of all times?” demanded Little Red Hen.
Mother Goose stepped into the house and stood by the door with a quiet smile on her bill. “I just want your story, all about this bread. I think it's fascinating. And don't you worry. I'm never hungry when I'm writing.”
“Oh,” said Little Red. “But I have no story for you.”
“Yes, you do,” said Mother Goose. “Tell me about how you made this bread. Did you really do it all yourself?”
“Oh, yes!” cackled the hen indignantly. And she told my mother the whole story of how she found the wheat seeds, planted them, grew them, harvested them, milled them, and baked the bread, while everyone refused to help – the cat went fishing, the dog played with a bone, the bees went dancing, the pig played the fiddle, the ducks played tag.
And Mother Goose began to write down the story of the Little Red Hen.
“And don't forget – I did it all myself, and nobody helped, and that's why nobody gets my bread. If anybody had taken even a moment to help me, I'd be happy to share the bread with them, but they are all lazy and selfish, so that's that. They get what they deserve.”
Mother wrote down the story, which has became very famous now. She was quite happy to leave the house with another wonderful story for her collection.
Little Red Hen was left all alone again. The bread still smelled delicious, and it was cooling down. After telling Mother Goose her whole story, Little Red cooled down too.
She sat at her little table in the quiet, and thought about how the cat had told her where to find the wheat. She thought about how the puppy had given her the idea of burying it in the field instead of leaving it for the other chickens to gobble up. The pig had suggested that she stamp the seeds into the ground with her feet instead of her beak, and that had worked like a charm. Without the bees, she would have gone back to the field every day to dig up the seeds and eat them, instead of letting them grow.
The ducks showed her how to shake the stalks so the wheat rained down when it was ripe, and without the cow she would never have found the little red wagon to collect the grain in. And without the wagon, no Molly. She missed Molly. She was wrong to tell the animals she had ground the flour and brought it home, because really Molly had done that part.
She wished Molly could be with her to eat some of the bread. She felt very lonely.
Little Red Hen pecked at the bread. It was delicious, and not too hot any more. But she didn’t feel like eating it. She felt sad. Molly was her best friend, but then all the animals there outside her door were her friends now. Without them, she never would have found the wheat or grown it or had this bread to eat. She decided to let them in.
Little Red Hen marched to the door and flung it open. No one was there. Now she felt lonelier than ever.
It was nearly dark outside. The full moon was up, low in the sky. The barnyard was empty.
A cool breeze riffled through the barnyard and into Little Red Hen’s house, and with it came a familiar tune. Somewhere, Big Pink Pig was playing the fiddle.
Little Red Hen perked up and cocked her head, listening. Tentatively, she stepped out into the barnyard where she could hear the music more clearly. The closer she got towards the barn, the louder the music grew.
It was the same familiar old tune she used to think she was tired of, but it made her heart skip as she thought of her friends, and of the times she and the other chickens scratched and pecked in time to the fiddle.
She heard sounds of all the animals now, and lots of thumping and laughing. The barn was lit up from the inside!
Just before she stepped into the doorway, a wave of shyness and shame about the bread overtook her. But when she took one step up into the doorway, she was greeted with a sight that chased away every ounce of shyness. The animals were dancing!
Big Pink Pig was up front playing her fiddle with a big smile and her snout in the air. Bessie the cow stood next to Big Pink Pig, bobbing her head up and down with her eyes closed, mooing along with the tune as best she could.
Everyone else was dancing in high glee – Furry Gray Cat, Waggy White Puppy, Old Yellow Dog, the three ducks, three baby bear cubs, the old goose and her daughter, even the horse and the lamb, the goat and the barn swallow. And leading the dance were the bees!
Dance down the middle With a wiggle, wag, wiggle, Then away to your left but don’t you stop-- Dance your way right up to the top! Keep time to the fiddle, Dance again down the middle, With a wag, wiggle, wiggle turn up to the right– Keep on going, we’ll dance all night!
Quick White Duck grabbed Little Red Hen and swept her right into the dance and showed her how to wiggle down the middle and dance up to the top. Everyone was glad to see her.
In the shadows of the doorway a figure appeared for a moment, and Little Red Hen thought it looked like Molly. Between dances the hen looked for her, but Molly had disappeared. Little Red Hen couldn’t even be sure she’d seen her.
“What a story this would be for Molly to tell Mrs. Big Man Farmer!” thought the hen with a happy cackle.
It was time for supper. The bear cubs had brought some tasty looking bugs, and eyed hungrily the honey brought by the bees, who were all abuzz about the flowers the dog put on the table. The dog had his eye on the fish the cat had caught, while the cat could hardly wait to lap at the cow’s milk.
Little Red Hen didn’t think twice about asking her new friends to help her fetch her bread, and in a few minutes, a parade of animals marched in carrying the fresh bread from Little Red Hen’s house.
7. Epilogue
And that’s the true story of Little Red Hen, as Molly asked me to write it down, and as Little Red Hen herself told it to me.
When the dance was all over and Little Red Hen strutted happily out the barn door on her way home, a kindly voice behind her said, “Your bread was just delicious, Little Red. What a story this will make for Mrs. Begman! And she doesn’t even wonder why these things always happen when she and her husband have gone to town. She just thinks I make the whole thing up! I really should write it all down – no, I should ask a real writer to do it – yes, I’ll ask old Mother Goose’s daughter, Longyellow, to write it; she’s so literary! Will you tell her the whole story, Little Red Hen? Please? Just for your friend, Little Red Molly?”
So I’ve written it all down as best I know how. The part that was most fun for me, though, was to picture my mother in front of Little Red Hen in the supper line. The way the hen described it, the silly old goose dutifully took a paper plate and a plastic spoon, pecked at a few dishes to taste the food, but completely forgot to put anything on her plate. It seems what she had in mind was to catch up with the pig. Mother wanted to get the pig to diddle her famous tune and recite her poem about the cat she learned her music from. Mother’s fearless when it comes to poetry. Imagine coming between a pig and her food!
She never ate another peck that night, not even of that delicious bread. She just sat down by the doorway to write rhymes, with her empty dish set carefully in front of her. The pig fiddled away, the cow seemed over the moo-oon with the myoo-oosic, and watching the dancers, Waggy White Puppy laughed to see such sport. I don’t think Mother even noticed when a breeze from the doorway blew her dish away with the spoon.
~ The End ~