Scratching about the yard, the little red hen turned up a handful of rice seed. "Who'll help me plant it?" "Not I." "Not I." "Not I." "Then I'll plant it myself."
Then came the rains. Pit-pat, pit-pat. Soaked through, the hen planted on — one step, then another. The dog stayed dry under the shed. "Rice doesn't grow by itself," she said.
By autumn the field stood golden. "Who'll help me cut it?" "Not I." "Not I." "Not I." Snick, snick went the sickle. By dusk, a mountain of rice in the yard.
"Who'll help me husk it?" "Not I! Not I! Not I!" Down came her foot on the husking beam — THUMP! THUD! THUMP! THUD! Can you hear it?
A cold winter night. The chicks fast asleep. Her wings ached and her eyes were heavy — still the hen set the rice cakes to steam. One… then another…
At dawn the yard filled with the smell of rice cakes. All three came running. "I'll have some!" The hen asked, "Who planted it? Who cut it? Who husked it?" Three heads sank low.
The hen and her chicks ate the rice cakes hot. Beyond the fence the three sat silent — the smell was all the share they got. Come the next planting, she never had to ask.