The farmer cradled a bundle of firewood in his arms as he gingerly opened the heavy wooden door and stamped his black, cracked, leather boots to remove the snow, when suddenly a chicken ran between his legs, into his house and sat nervously on his favorite chair in front of a roaring fire.
The chicken, Sally, he named all his chickens, he only had five, said in a high-pitched crackling voice, "I am so cold, please let me stay". The farmer, a heavyset man in his 50's with a scraggly gray beard, shooed the chicken away from his chair, and sat down. He was not the least bit surprised at the talking chicken. He had been isolated in this house for three months and he had developed an incredibly close relationship to his animals. He was actually very grateful for the company.
"I can be useful! I am very resourceful", Sally clucked, pacing the floor in front of his feet. Before the farmer had a chance to respond, Sally flew to the kitchen and laid an egg on the edge of an iron frying pan. With her right claw, she dexterously whipped up a delicious, fluffy plate of scrambled eggs. The farmer was quite pleased when Sally served him breakfast, just like his wife used to cook, the fluffy eggs accompanied with savory potatoes and a crispy pork sausage.
As he sat in chair, eating his breakfast, he stared lovingly at his wife's picture on the mantel above the fireplace. Such a sweet girl, why did it have to end so tragically? Her luxurious blond hair glowed around her head like a halo and her beautiful light blue eyes stared back at him lovingly from the picture.
Lost in thought, he was startled when his other four chickens walked into the living room. Sally held the door open with her claw. "They are cold too! Freezing!" Sally clucked nervously, fending off the farmer's disapproving scowl. Sally let the door close and joined her friends warming their feathers by the fire. A short while later, the black nose of his cow Bess nuzzled the front door open and joined the chickens by the fire. "Why not let all the animals in Sally?” the farmer yelled at the chicken, "Let the whole damn woods in for all I care." The cow and the chickens merely glanced at him discreetly, shocked at his impolite outburst.
The day his wife died, her first and last day on the farm, he had been milking Bess in the barn. He really did not need the milk, but merely an excuse to escape his wife's wild, frantic, exaggerated accusations, "You are a loser, this cabin is no place to raise a child! What were you thinking? This is a God forsaken hole in the woods!" He politely excused himself and left for the barn, finding his cow Bess to be a friendlier companion than his wife at that very moment. A short while later, his dear wife passed the barn with a haughty look and wandered off into the dark, tangled, woods as he continued to pull rhythmically on the teats.
She was right of course, she was always irritatingly right, the lack of sunlight in the small clearing in the woods resulted in stunted, deformed corn, barely good enough for his pig Emma. Carrots growing in the acidic soil resulted in a fetid, black mass when they were pulled out of the ground at harvest time. Even the chickens suffered from the dearth of worms in the mossy topsoil.
But he had to sell his beloved farm by the village after his wife had spent every last dime of his on luxurious dresses and sparkling jewels. He would stride beside her like a proud rooster down the main street, fully aware of the stares of men and women at his golden girl. But her real motive in buying the dresses and jewels was to attend the glamorous balls in the city where she appeared in the doorway, her new evening dress sparkling, her diamond earrings glinting, all eyes upon her as she proceeded to dance the night away with royal princes vertically and horizontally, only to return home to see the farmer's dirt covered hands and his tired, puffy eyes.
It was already lunchtime and the farmer was hungry. "Sally," he bellowed, one of you needs to make me a roast chicken!"
The five chickens clucked nervously in front of the fire, pointing at each other with an accusatory raised wing. After much discussion, Sally emerged from the group and, standing proudly in front of the farmer's chair, said in a high voice, "You can eat me, I am the oldest, but I am still in good shape. I will be moist and tasty, I promise!" Without hesitation, Sally flew to the kitchen counter and started to pluck her own feathers out with her beak. Her friends assisted her, since it was difficult to reach all the parts, particularly her tail feathers. When Sally was completely plucked clean, her exposed pink flesh glistening in the light, she bravely stepped into the broiler, which the other chickens had already helpfully pre-heated to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Sally saluted the other chickens lined up on the counter and of course the farmer, who stared at the scene in amazement from his favorite chair in the living room. "Remember me my friends, I am sacrificing myself so that you may live, remember me." At that point, the other chickens closed the door to the broiler and Sally could be seen through the window grimacing for a while and bravely clenching her yellow beak together firmly so that she would not scream as her pink skin turned a tasty, light golden brown. The farmer, with a tinge of guilt, ate the chicken. As Sally had promised, she was moist and delicious.
