37. Dreams are Work


Jane Frances de Chantal was a chicken. She laid an egg a day. But mostly, she liked to cavort around the yard. She particularly liked to scratch in the dirt with the rooster — both literally and figuratively. Her breed was Faverolle, which is French and very stylish.

Suddenly, Mopsy appeared around the corner of the barn, followed by six newly-hatched chicks. Mopsy was a very plain white chicken, with bits of black and brown. A cross-breed apparently. Yuk! There was nothing stylish about her.

“Great scott! Oh mon Dieu!” gasped Jane Frances de Chantal. “Look at that! Mopsy’s got six chicks! How on earth did she do that? I want some of those! How do you make babies, Mopsy?”

“You should know,” said Mopsy, casting one eye towards the rooster.

“I don’t have a clue,” confessed Jane Frances de Chantal.

“It’s simple,” said Mopsy. “You lay some eggs. Then you sit on them for three weeks. After that, babies will hatch.”

“Three weeks! Oh la vache!” exclaimed Jane Frances de Chantal. “Three weeks! I would be bored stiff! I want to scratch around in the dirt with the rooster! I want to roost in the magnolia tree with him at night! I want to dine with him in a candlelight supper! I was put on this planet for fun! Fun! Fun — you ugly little cross-bred crap of a chicken! I’m not sitting on boring eggs for a tedious three weeks!”

“Then you can’t have chicks,” said Mopsy.

Please feel free to spout, tout, flout, sprout, pout, or simply say something sensible

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