The Hen and the Swallow

Scratching under the hedge one morning, the hen found a nest of small pale eggs. They were cold, and no mother was in sight. "You poor things," she clucked. "Nobody wants you."

She did not stop to ask what kind of eggs they were. She gathered them in under her warm feathers and sat down. She sat through the rain. She sat through the wind. Every day she turned them with her beak, as gently as if they were her own.

One egg split. Then another. Out of each came a thin, shiny head with two bright eyes and a tiny tongue that flicked in and out. "There, there," clucked the hen. She tucked them in close.

A swallow flew down to the fence and stopped dead. She stared at the hen. She stared at the small striped things wriggling in the straw.

"You silly creature!" she cried. "Those are vipers! Why have you hatched them? They are small now. But they will grow, and then they will hurt everyone they meet. And they will begin with you!"