The Little Red Hen
American Fable
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Retold by The Legendary Connection
TLC#00104
Once upon a time, in a busy barnyard, lived a Little Red Hen. She spent her days happily scratching the ground, searching for worms to feed her little chicks. Whenever she found a fat, juicy worm, she would call, “Chuck-chuck-chuck!” and her chicks would come running to share the treat.
In the same barnyard lived a lazy Cat, who spent most of her time napping in the doorway, and a fat Pig, who only cared about eating. There was also a sly Rat who scurried around, doing as he pleased without bothering to help anyone.
One day, as the Little Red Hen was pecking the ground, she found something unusual. It wasn’t a worm—it was a seed. She thought it might be something new and tasty to eat, but then she realized it was a wheat seed. If she planted, it would grow into wheat, which could be made into flour, and then into bread.
The Little Red Hen thought this was a wonderful idea, but she was busy caring for her chicks. So, she asked her barnyard neighbors for help.
“Who will plant the Seed?” she called.
“Not I,” said the Pig.
“Not I,” said the Cat.
“Not I,” said the Rat.
“Then I will do it myself,” said the Little Red Hen. And so she did.
The days passed, and the Little Red Hen continued her work, feeding her chicks and searching for worms. Meanwhile, the wheat grew tall and strong. When it was finally ready to be harvested, the Little Red Hen looked at the golden stalks and knew the time had come.
“Who will cut the wheat?” she called.
“Not I,” said the Pig.
“Not I,” said the Cat.
“Not I,” said the Rat.
“Then I will do it myself,” said the Little Red Hen. And so she did.
After cutting the wheat, the Little Red Hen realized it needed to be threshed to separate the grain from the stalks. But she had her hands full with her hungry chicks, so she asked again:
“Who will thresh the wheat?”
“Not I,” grunted the Pig.
“Not I,” meowed the Cat.
“Not I,” squeaked the Rat.
“Then I will do it myself,” said the Little Red Hen. And so she did.
Once the wheat was threshed, it needed to be taken to the mill to be ground into flour. This was no easy task, so once more, the Little Red Hen asked for help.
“Who will take the wheat to the mill?” she asked.
“Not I,” said the Pig.
“Not I,” said the Cat.
“Not I,” said the Rat.
“Then I will do it myself,” said the Little Red Hen. And so she did.
The Little Red Hen carried the wheat to the mill, and the miller ground it into fine, white flour. She carried the heavy sack of flour back to the barnyard, feeling proud of her hard work.
By now, her chicks were excited, and the Little Red Hen knew it was time to bake the bread. She had never baked bread before, but she was confident she could do it. After feeding her chicks, she asked her neighbors one last time:
“Who will help me bake the bread?”
“Not I,” said the Pig.
“Not I,” said the Cat.
“Not I,” said the Rat.
“Then I will do it myself,” said the Little Red Hen. And so she did.
The Little Red Hen mixed the flour with water, kneaded the dough, and placed it in the oven to bake. Soon, the delicious smell of fresh bread filled the air, and all the animals in the barnyard began to take notice.
The Pig sniffed the air, the Cat licked her paws, and the Rat twitched his nose as they eagerly gathered around the oven. When the Little Red Hen took out the golden-brown loaves, they all exclaimed:
“Who will eat the bread?”
“I will,” said the Pig.
“I will,” said the Cat.
“I will,” said the Rat.
But the Little Red Hen shook her head. “No, you won’t,” she said. “I planted the seed, threshed the wheat, milled the flour, and baked the bread all by myself. I will eat the bread all by myself.” And so she did.
The Little Red Hen and her chicks enjoyed the delicious bread, while the lazy animals looked on with regret. They had learned a valuable lesson: those who don’t work shouldn’t expect to share in the reward.
White Williams, Florence. “The Project Gutenberg EBook of the Little Red Hen, by Florence White Williams.” Www.gutenberg.org, 1 July 2006, www.gutenberg.org/files/18735/18735-h/18735-h.htm.
