The Tales of Tif­fany Chicken


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“I’m go­ing to call you Tif­fany — Tif­fany Chicken.”

The lit­tle chick looked up at her new mum. She hardly re­mem­bered the feath­ered mum who had for­got­ten her when she hatched. Cold and alone, lit­tle Tif­fany had nearly died. Now she was grow­ing stronger ev­ery day.

“How do you know it’s a girl?” said some­one. “Tif­fany would be a funny name for a cockerel.”

“Of course I’m a girl,” chirped Tif­fany crossly, but un­for­tu­nately no­body un­der­stood her.

“You’ve got a lot to say for your­self,” laughed New Mum. “Def­i­nitely a girl. Such a sweet face too.”

Tif­fany loved to come out of her box and sit with her strange new fam­ily. She had a heater to keep her warm and plenty to eat and drink. But she was some­times lonely.

“Oh Tif­fany,” said New Mum. “You’ve made a mess again. Back in your box.”

“No, no, no,” squeaked Tif­fany, strug­gling to get free. “I want to stay with you.”

It was no good. She was put back in her card­board box. There was no­body to play with. She scur­ried un­der her heater and sulked.

“Tell you what,” said New Mum, “I’ll put the ra­dio on to keep you com­pany.”

Tif­fany liked the strange noises. She sang along to the mu­sic and lis­tened to peo­ple talk­ing. She was a very smart chicken and the more she lis­tened the more she learnt. Soon she un­der­stood ev­ery­thing she heard, but she could still only speak chicken.

“My name is Tif­fany Chicken,” she chirped qui­etly to her­self, “and I’m go­ing to get out of this box and have some fun.”

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