ONE MORNING in spring, when the primroses and cowslips were out in the fields, and the violets were blue under the hedges, the Speckledy Hen took a walk. She stepped along the little paths, lifting her feet high, peering to right and to left, looking at the trees and the banks and the hollow places. Sometimes she raised her head and glanced at the blue sky, but there was no sign of rain. She was a long way from home, and she had no umbrella, so she was glad the sun shone down and warmed her feathers.
She was looking for a house for herself. She had decided to leave the farmyard with all its noisy company and live alone.
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