Once upon a time there were three little chickens. I don’t know what their names were cuz in those days chickens didn’t have names, but they always knew one from the other, as was the ways of chickens.
The first chicken did what a chicken was supposed to do. She ate the grain that was given to her and she laid the eggs that were expected of her and she died as in the proper way that was known, which is to say the farmer took the ax to her head and then when she was dead, she thought to herself it was a good life and death is fine for me.
The second chicken did the same as the first but she always felt that there was more to life than the grain and pebbles at her feet, and so when she died, she was not happy, but having no notion of what more there was, she spent her evenings haunting the farmer and his wife for many years. A clucking could be heard just round the corner but when they went to see where the chicken was she was nowhere to be seen.
The third chicken was an exceptional chicken. She would not eat the grain that was laid at her feet, but rather, she walked out into the fields to pull juicy worms from the ground and scratched only at the dirt that lay beneath the grasses felt between her claws. When the farmer came towards her with the ax she ran about the yard making quite the racket and ruffled many a feather with her squawking and gawking about. She was in such a tizzy that the farmer chose to leave her for last, but by then he was tired and not wanting to chase after such a feather duster, and so she lived out her days in the farmer’s far off fields pecking away at the dirt and feeling the grass between her toes.
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