The Little Red Hen
A farmer's wife finds a grain of wheat, but her lazy friends won't help her grow it
Page 1
Once upon a time, there lived a Little Red Hen on a big, busy farm, where the sun warmed the red barn and the scent of hay mingled with the fresh country air. She was a very hardworking hen, always scratching diligently for worms, pecking at stray grains, or tidying her nest with meticulous care. Every day she found something useful to do, while the other animals preferred to rest. She shared her farmyard with some rather lazy friends: a big, shaggy Dog who loved nothing more than to stretch out and sleep in the sun, a sleek, black Cat who spent his days napping on warm stones or batting at dust motes, a plump white Duck who preferred splashing noisily in puddles over any exertion, and a big, pink Pig who was happiest wallowing deeply in the cool, soft mud. The Little Red Hen often wished her friends were a little more active and less inclined to let the days drift by in idleness, but they seemed perfectly content in their carefree ways.
Page 2
One bright, sunny morning, as the Little Red Hen was scratching diligently near the big red barn, her keen eye caught sight of something unusual glinting amidst the dusty ground. It was a single, plump grain of wheat, lying forgotten amongst the tiny pebbles and dry blades of grass along the barn's foundation. "What a fine grain this is!" she clucked with a satisfied tilt of her head, carefully nudging it with her beak. She knew that from just one such seed, many more could grow, eventually yielding a harvest of golden stalks, given the right care and effort. A wonderful, delicious idea began to form in her clever little hen's mind, an idea that promised something truly special, not just for herself, but for everyone on the farm, if only they would help.
Page 3
The Little Red Hen, holding the precious grain carefully in her beak, carried it to a small, empty patch of earth in the garden, which she knew was perfect for planting. With a hopeful cluck, she turned to her friends, who were, as always, enjoying their leisure. "Who will help me plant this wheat?" she asked loudly, her voice clear in the quiet garden. The Dog stretched languidly, his eyes still half-closed, saying with a long sigh, "Not I! I'm much too tired." The Cat licked a paw with great care, then purred, "Not I! My fur is far too delicate for digging." The Duck shook her tail feathers, scattering drops of water, and quacked dismissively, "Not I! I have a very important puddle to splash in!" The Pig merely grunted loudly from his mud bath, "Not I! It's far too much effort!" The Little Red Hen sighed, a small puff of exasperated air, but her resolve remained firm. "Then I will plant it myself," she declared, and she began to scratch and peck at the soil with her strong feet and sharp beak, making a neat little hole for the precious grain.
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The sun shone brightly, warming the earth, and the gentle rains fell, nourishing the soil. Time passed quietly on the farm, marked by the changing seasons. The Little Red Hen, ever diligent, visited her little patch of earth every single day, clucking encouragingly to the hidden seed. Soon, a tiny green shoot poked its head shyly through the soil, then another, and another, responding to the warmth and moisture. Before long, the small patch of tilled earth had completely transformed into a magnificent field of tall, golden wheat, swaying rhythmically in the gentle summer breeze. It was a beautiful sight, a testament to her hard work and unwavering patience, filling the air with a soft, rustling sound. The wheat heads were plump and heavy, bursting with ripe grains, ready for the next crucial step of their journey towards becoming delicious bread.
Page 5
When the wheat was fully ripe and ready for harvesting, its golden color deepening under the sun, the Little Red Hen knew it was a big and demanding job. The stalks were heavy, and there were many to cut. She went to find her friends, who were, as usual, taking their ease in their favorite spots. "Who will help me cut this wheat?" she asked, her voice clear and hopeful. The Dog groaned dramatically, stretching his front paws far out, saying, "Not I! I'm far too sleepy, and this grass is so comfortable." The Cat stretched luxuriously, arching his back and purring, "Not I! I have many important naps to take, and the sun is just perfect here." The Duck shook her tail feathers, sending water droplets flying, and quacked dismissively, "Not I! My pond awaits, and my wings are tired from paddling!" The Pig merely snorted loudly from his muddy slumber, "Not I! It's much too much effort to even think about it!" The Little Red Hen sighed again, a familiar feeling of resignation settling over her, knowing exactly what she had to do next.
Page 6
“Then I will cut it myself,” said the Little Red Hen, her voice firm with resolve, and she immediately set to work. With her strong, sharp beak, she pecked and pulled diligently at each heavy stalk, cutting them one by one. Her little wings fluttered with effort as she gathered the fallen wheat into small, manageable bundles, which are called sheaves. It was hard, tiring work under the warm summer sun, but the Little Red Hen did not complain, nor did she falter. Her determination was clear in every focused movement. Slowly but surely, a neat stack of golden wheat sheaves began to grow beside her, a perfect, orderly pile ready for the next stage of its transformation. She knew that every bit of effort, every cut stalk, every gathered bundle, brought her closer to a delicious, warm loaf of bread.
Page 7
Now the wheat was cut and bundled, but it needed to be ground into fine flour. This meant a journey to the village mill, a long way down the dusty farm track. "Who will help me take this wheat to the mill?" asked the Little Red Hen, trying to push a small but heavy bundle of sheaves along the rough, uneven ground. The Dog yawned dramatically again, stretching his large body, "Not I! That's much too far, and I prefer to nap right here." The Cat stretched gracefully, arching his back and batting at a fly, "Not I! My paws are far too delicate for such a rough journey." The Duck shook her tail feathers vigorously, sending small splashes, and quacked with a dismissive wiggle, "Not I! I might get terribly dusty on that road!" The Pig, barely opening one eye from his comfortable wallow, just snored a deep, rumbling snore. So, the Little Red Hen, with a determined cluck and a deep breath, began to push and pull the heavy bundle herself, one slow, laborious step at a time, along the long, winding track that led all the way to the distant village mill.
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At last, after a long and dusty journey, the Little Red Hen arrived at the old stone mill, its great waterwheel turning steadily outside. It was a busy, noisy place, filled with the rumbling, rhythmic sound of massive grinding stones and the sweet, wholesome smell of freshly milled flour. "Then I will grind it myself," she clucked with a resolute shake of her head, and with careful pushes and pulls of her beak and feet, she managed to get her precious wheat into the wooden hopper, ready to be crushed. The great millstones turned slowly, powerfully, with a deep, grinding hum, transforming the golden grains into a cloud of soft, fine, powdery white flour. Dust motes danced like tiny stars in the shafts of light filtering through the small, dusty windows, as the Little Red Hen watched her hard work become something new and wonderful, a truly essential ingredient for baking.
Page 9
With her beak full of soft white flour, the Little Red Hen returned to her cozy, warm kitchen. The delicious, comforting smell of fresh baking was already beginning to fill her imagination, a promise of the wonderful treat to come. This was the final, exciting step in her long journey! "Who will help me bake this bread?" she asked her friends, who had, predictably, followed the tempting scent of flour and warmth to the kitchen doorway. The Dog groaned dramatically, stretching his front paws and whining softly, "Not I! I desperately need my rest, it’s been such a long day of napping!" The Cat stretched languidly, arching his back and yawning, "Not I! My fur might get terribly messy with flour, and I simply cannot risk it." The Duck waddled away with a dismissive flap of her wings, "Not I! I’m going for a refreshing swim, this kitchen is far too hot!" The Pig snorted loudly from his comfortable spot just outside, "Not I! It's far too much heat for a pig of my delicate constitution!" The Little Red Hen looked from her lazy friends to her mound of flour, then to the waiting oven, and with a determined cluck, she knew exactly what she must do.
Page 10
The Little Red Hen, true to her word, baked the bread herself, and soon the most wonderful, irresistible smell filled the entire farmyard, wafting from the kitchen and making every animal stir. It was a golden brown loaf, with a crusty outside and a soft, fluffy inside. "Who will help me eat this bread?" she asked, her voice clear and strong. Suddenly, as if awakened by a magic spell, from every corner of the farm, her friends appeared! Their eyes were wide, and their mouths watered. "Oh, I will!" barked the Dog, wagging his tail eagerly. "Indeed, I will!" purred the Cat, rubbing against her leg. "I will! I will!" quacked the Duck, waddling quickly. "I will!" grunted the Pig, pushing forward. But the Little Red Hen simply shook her head firmly. "No," she said, her voice gentle but resolute. "You did not help me plant it, nor cut it, nor take it to the mill, nor grind it, nor bake it. So, I will eat it myself!" And she did, every delicious crumb, enjoying the sweet, warm fruits of her own honest labor, while her friends watched, wishing they had helped.
About this story
- Audience: kids (ages 6–12)
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