It's Quite True!

On a small farm, in the cozy dusk of the henhouse, a white hen hopped onto her perch. She smoothed her feathers, tucked her head beneath her wing, and gave a gentle shake. A single soft feather, light as a snowflake, drifted down and landed on the straw.

“Well,” clucked the hen sleepily, “the more one grooms, the better one keeps house. A feather will fall now and then.” And she closed her eyes.

On the next perch over, another hen peeked with one bright eye. She saw the little feather in the straw and puffed herself up. “I must tell my friend,” she thought. “Not to gossip, of course, only to share what I have seen. It’s quite true.”

She hopped down and whispered to her neighbor: “Have you heard? I will not mention names, but there is a hen who pulled out a feather for the sake of the cock. Such vanity!”

“Shocking!” said the neighbor hen. And when she met two more hens near the feeder, she told them, “Listen to this: a hen I know pulled out two feathers to make herself pretty for the cock.”

Two feathers became three when the next hen passed it along: “Three feathers, would you believe it? Some hens think more of admiring glances than of good sense!” The three hens clucked and shook their heads, very pleased to be so concerned.

By afternoon, the talk had flown from perch to perch like a fluttering flock. The pigeons on the roof heard it and cooed to the doves: “We bring news from below! Four feathers plucked for a cock’s attention. It is quite true—we have it from reliable fowl.”

Up in the rafters, an old owl blinked his round eyes and nodded gravely. Owls, as everyone knows, are very serious at sunset. “I am a bird of thought,” he hooted to his mate, “and I am careful with facts. But I have it on good authority that five hens have pulled out five feathers each in a display of vanity. Young creatures these days!”

The turkeys gobbled with outrage when the owl told them. “Five feathers? Disgraceful!” they cried, inflating their chests. When they met the ducks by the pond, they made the story heavier, as turkeys often do. “It is a scandal,” they gobbled, “and we tremble to say it: six hens have plucked themselves near to nakedness. All for a single cock!”

The ducks paddled in circles, quacking so fast the ripples spread like rings on the water. “Near to nakedness?” a drake repeated. “What a world! We must warn the geese.” And when he told the geese, the tale had grown even more splendid: “Seven hens have stripped themselves bare! Think of the draft! Think of the shamelessness!”

The geese hissed and nodded their long necks wisely. “We must protect the farm from such examples,” they said. “We shall tell the barn cat, who is clever, and the yard dog, who has a loud voice.”

The barn cat arched her back and purred, “I knew it. Hens are ever so foolish.” She told the dog as she passed by him. The dog barked through the fence to the neighbor’s hound, “Eight hens have plucked out all their feathers for a cock. It is outrageous but quite true.”

The neighbor’s hound told the pig, the pig told the goat, and the goat told the stable boy as he stacked hay. By then, the story had fine new feathers of its own. “Nine hens plucked themselves clean,” said the goat, “and one fainted from the chill. I heard it with my own ears.”

The stable boy ran to the dairy maid. “Ten hens!” he cried. “Ten hens pulled out every feather to show off, and the cock was so dazzled that two other cocks fought about it.”

The dairy maid gasped and told the farmer’s wife, “It is dreadful! A whole henhouse stood shivering, all for vanity. The cocks flew at one another like knights in a tale.” She shook her head. “But it is quite true.”

That evening, the farmer’s wife spoke with a neighbor over the fence. “You will scarcely believe it,” she said, “but a respectable person told me. An entire flock plucked itself bare, and three cocks were injured fighting for the sight!”

The neighbor, who liked a good story as much as a good soup, told the tradesman in town. The tradesman told the schoolteacher, the schoolteacher told the shopkeeper, and the shopkeeper told a gentleman who wrote things down. By morning, the tale was brisk and polished and very important.

A printed notice appeared: “Terrible Farm Scandal! Out of foolish pride, a hen plucked herself bare to please a cock. The example spread; many hens followed. Fierce battles among cocks! Several wounded. Reliable sources confirm it is quite true.”

Meanwhile, back in the henhouse, the white hen woke to a sunbeam and hopped down, rustling her neat feathers. She pecked at a seed, scratched the straw, and found the little feather that had fallen the night before. “There you are,” she clucked. “As I said, a feather will fall now and then. It is natural.”

She shook herself happily and went out to the yard. She had not pulled out a single feather on purpose. She knew nothing of cocks fighting, newspapers printing, or the great stir her small, drifting feather had caused.

Up on the fence, the pigeons puffed their chests. “We were the first to report it,” they cooed.

In the rafters, the owl closed his eyes in wisdom. “I am careful,” he muttered. “I speak only what is true. It came to me from a trustworthy beak. It is quite true.”

And the hens, turkeys, ducks, geese, cat, and dogs all nodded and repeated one another. “Quite true! Quite true!” they said.

But if you had asked the little white hen, she would have shown you the single feather in the straw and said, “This is all there ever was.”

So a tiny thing became a great story, and every beak that told it added a little peck of its own. That is how gossip grows feathers, flies far, and lands as “quite true,” even when it isn’t.