way--but it was as impossible to find perfection as the
philosopher's stone.

They hoped at the farm that in time the feathers would grow again.
Meanwhile it was hard on the hen.

Nothing of the sort happened; one, two, three months passed and
not the least vestige of down appeared on the hen, who had to be
protected like a human being from the changes of climate and so
forth. Like a well-to-do farmer's wife Yollande had her
linen-chest and a complete outfit.

It was, I assure you, my dear children, kept up most carefully.
There was always a button to sew on, a buttonhole to remake, or a
tear to be mended. Thus constantly in touch with the household
Madame Hen soon thought she belonged to it. Indeed, worn out by
the teasing of her companions, by the constant arguments she had
with them, and touched on the other hand by the affectionate care
of her mistresses, Yollande stayed more and more in the house.
Coddled and swathed in her fantastic costumes, she sat in the
chimney corner like a little Cinderella changed into a hen; from
this corner she quietly watched; nothing escaped her notice.

Meanwhile her reputation had grown, not only amongst her comrades,
but amongst all the animals of the neighbourhood, who, hearing her
discussed, were anxious to see her.

Woe to the cat or dog who dared venture too far into the room!
Very annoyed at this impertinent curiosity, she would leap upon
the importunate stranger and punish him terribly with her sharp