Oh, why should a henhave been run overon West 4th Streetin the middle of summer?
She was a white hen—red-and-white now, of course.
How did she get there?
Where was she going?
Her wing feathers spreadflat, flat in the tar,all dirtied, and thinas tissue paper.
A pigeon, yes,or an English sparrow,might meet such a fate,but not that poor fowl.
Just now I went backto look again.
I hadn't dreamed it:there is a henturned into a quaintold country sayingscribbled in chalk(except for the beak).
