The Hen Who Dreamed She Could Fly Read Online Free PDF

later he brought her a fish. Sprout pried open her sleep-laden eyes and shook her head. “Please don’t do that again. I wish you wouldn’t be so noisy at night.”
    Straggler didn’t answer. He seemed very tired.
    â€œYou’ve been so good to me,” Sprout continued. “I’m so grateful. I’ll never forget everything you’ve done for me. But as you know, I’m hatching an egg.”
    Straggler remained quiet. Sprout must have hurt his feelings. All she did was complain—when he’d saved her from the Hole of Death, when he’d stood up for her so she could stay in the barn, when he’d brought her food. Straggler gazed at the reservoir, deep in thought.
    Apologetically, Sprout said, “I’m fine now. My claws are strong and my beak is hard. I won’t go down without a fight if the weasel comes back. So you can go and do your own thing.”
    Straggler looked at her, the feathers on his neck trembling. Sprout shouldn’t have mentioned the weasel. “When the egg hatches, maybe when the dark moon . . .” he murmured. Sprout wondered why he was waiting for her egg to hatch, but he didn’t explain. Before returning to the reservoir, he said cryptically, “If I could swim just once more with . . .”
    That night went by quietly. Sprout carefully considered the waxing and waning of the moon. A crescent moon had filled out into a full moon, and now it was waning each night, soon to become a dark moon. Incubation was taking longer than she thought, but the heartbeat was still strong. Straggler brought her food as always. Sprout wanted to apologize for what she’d said earlier. “I wouldn’t mind so much if you just took it down a notch. With your wings spread wide like that, it looks like you’re dancing. Like you’re flying away, beautiful and free.” Sprout opened her wings and shook them in appeasement. But all she did was create dust. Her wings weren’t for flying; they were just for show.
    â€œFlying away?” Straggler asked quietly. He looked out sadly over the reservoir and murmured, “If I could fly again . . .”
    â€œYour wings look different from the other ducks’. Although your right wing is a little strange.”
    â€œRight, I bet I look silly. My right wing . . .” Straggler was quiet for a long time, watching Sprout peck eagerly at the loach he’d brought. After her meal, Sprout dug at the ground for exercise and bathed herself with dirt. Her itchy body felt much better. “It’s almost time for the egg to hatch, right?” Straggler asked gently.
    â€œIt must be overdue. It should have hatched already.” Sprout enjoyed sitting across from him and chatting.
    â€œUm, so, later, when the egg hatches—you’re a hen—” Straggler stammered, nervously tapping the ground with his bill during the pauses.
    Sprout was a little exasperated. “You know, I have a name,” she confided. “I gave it to myself.”
    â€œReally? I’ve never heard it.”
    â€œBecause nobody knows it. Will you call me Sprout?”
    â€œSprout? Like grass and leaves?”
    â€œRight. There’s nothing better than a sprout. It stands for doing good.”
    Straggler pondered Sprout’s words. From time to time he used his bill to rub the oil from his tail into his feathers.
    â€œA sprout is the mother of flowers,” Sprout explained. “It breathes, stands firm against rain and wind, keeps the sunlight, and rears blindingly white flowers. If it weren’t for sprouts, there’d be no trees. A sprout is vital.”
    â€œSprout . . . that’s a perfect name for you,” Straggler agreed. Sprout was pleased. She knew she should try to understand his nocturnal commotion instead of resenting it. Straggler turned serious. “Even without a name like that, you’re a really