Eggs for Elsie

"Ten eggs, and not one more to find," said Elsie, standing in the cold, bright yard.

She was a farmer, a small one, with big yellow boots. Every morning she carried the basket to the henhouse. Every morning she brought back eggs for breakfast. Today Grandpa wanted a boiled egg with toast soldiers, and so did she.

But the nest boxes were empty. Elsie looked in the first. Straw. She looked in the second. Straw. She looked in the third, and a feather floated up and tickled her nose.

"Where are the eggs?" she asked the hens.

The hens only said, "Bok, bok."

Elsie tried looking under the hens. They shuffled away and sat down again, looking proud and very round. Still no eggs.

So Elsie tried something different. She sat down on an upturned bucket and was quiet. She listened. The wind hummed. The gate creaked. And somewhere close by, something went peep, peep, peep.

"That's not a hen," whispered Elsie.

She tiptoed round the henhouse. Behind the water barrel lay a heap of old sacks, and the sacks were wobbling. Elsie lifted the corner.

There sat the speckled hen, warm as a loaf of bread. Under her were all ten eggs. One egg had a crack in it. A tiny beak poked out, and the peeping got louder.

"Oh!" said Elsie. "You wanted a secret nest."

The speckled hen fluffed her feathers and said, "Bok."

Elsie did not take a single egg. She put the empty basket down. Then she fetched a handful of straw and tucked it round the sacks, nice and snug.

Grandpa came out in his slippers. "Any eggs?"

"Not today," said Elsie. "But listen."

They stood together in the cold, bright yard. Peep, peep, peep, went the sacks. Then crack, and a small wet chick tumbled out, blinking at the morning.