The Curly-Haired Hen | Page 6

proper place in the world.
At last what had happened to the head, happened to the body too. Before a week had gone by a thick down completely covered the big hen. The good women, much wondering, imagined that as it grew stronger the hair would change into feathers. Anxiously they awaited the change. Nothing of the sort happened. The hair remained hair--red, Titian red--fine and soft, curling round your fingers, admirable in quality and colour.
The hair on the head, older than that on the rest of the body, was much longer, which suggested to the mischievous Germaine the idea of making her an elaborate headdress.
Nothing like it had ever been seen before.
Soon Yollande was able to discard some of her clothes. Her breast and back required for a time yet a little covering, but this grew gradually less and less.
Naturally the phenomenon was much discussed in the neighbourhood, and it attracted many and delightful visitors to the farm, all of whom Mother Etienne welcomed cordially. Yollande was less pleased with this desire to inspect her. Generally some unbeliever would tug at her hair, a painful experience for her. So, except towards her mistress and Germaine, she had become exceedingly vindictive and watchful. Every time she had the chance she pecked with her short, stout beak at the person indiscreet enough to take such liberties. One little visitor, more daring than the rest, nearly lost his finger over it.
The fame of the curly-haired hen was tremendous, it spread even beyond the limits of the district. It was really worth a journey to see her. They wrote of it in the newspapers. The "Daily Mirror," I think it was, had a fine long article about her.
But in certain quarters, the whole thing was looked upon as a "fish story."
CHAPTER V
SIR BOOUM CALLS UPON MOTHER ETIENNE
Just about this time placards were posted about the whole village, announcing the arrival of a Great American Circus, bringing in its train the most wonderful spectacles. Menageries,--curiosities of all kinds, such as had not been seen since the time of the Caesars.
Incredible things were on show. Nobody, however small their purse, could resist the pleasure of witnessing these sights. Nobody, that is, except the people in and around this village.
The menagerie prepared for its performance by splendid processions. Caparisoned in gold the elephants marched around. There were horses of all colours and of all sizes, dromedaries, rhinoceroses, black men and white monkeys, bands of musicians, fairy chariots.
The inhabitants saw the gorgeous procession pass with indifference, with a superior kind of air and without the least enthusiasm.
On the evening of the first performance, in spite of the placards, processions, bands, notices, and illuminations, nobody appeared at the ticket-office of the theatre and they played to an empty house.
"What," cried the impresario, tearing his hair. "Crowds flocked to me in London, Paris, St. Petersburg, and New York. I have been congratulated by the Shah of Persia, invited to lunch by the Grand Turk, and this little hole despises me, mocks at me, considers me a failure."
The lights out, Sir Booum spent a terrible night, wondering what evil genius could thus attack his laurels. At dawn, worn out by his sleepless night, he set out, eager to learn the cause of his failure.
All those whom he met winked knowingly, laughing in their sleeves, and courtesied to him without giving him any information. At last one, touched by his despair, answered:
"Why should we come to you? We have here in this very place, where we can see it for nothing, a marvel beside which yours are commonplace. Have you in your menagerie a curly-haired hen?"
"A curly-haired hen!" cried Sir Booum. "Gracious, goodness me! What are you talking about? Three times have I been round the world and have never heard of such a thing."
"Go to the big farm down yonder and you can see the one I am telling you about. You will be ashamed to think how uninteresting in comparison are the things you show."
A few minutes later, a magnificent equipage, driven by an elegant gentleman and drawn by two light bays, entered the courtyard of the big farm.
"Does Madame Etienne live here, please?" he asked Petit-Jacques, who was busy grooming Coco.
"Yes, sir."
"Will you kindly give her this card and ask if she will see me?"
"Certainly, sir, at once."
Petit-Jacques returned a few minutes later with Mother Etienne.
The gentleman got down from his seat, handing the reins to his groom.
"Excuse me, Madame. I am Sir Booum. It was my circus which gave its first performance here yesterday as announced on the placards posted on the walls throughout the village.
I have heard, Madame, that you have a most extraordinary hen, and I have come to beg you to show it to me. If it is really such as it was described to