Waltey

Prevod

"It's a dreadful story!" said a hen, over in the part of town where the story had not taken place. "It's a dreadful story from the henhouse! I daren't sleep alone tonight! It's a good thing there are so many of us together on the roost!" And then she told it, so that the other hens' feathers stood on end and the cock's comb drooped. It's perfectly true!

But we shall begin at the beginning, which was in a henhouse at the other end of town. The sun went down and the hens flew up to roost. One of them had white feathers and short legs; she laid her eggs as regularly as she ought and was, as hens go, respectable in every way. As she settled on the roost, she preened herself with her beak, and a little feather fell off.

"There it goes!" she said. "The more I pluck myself, the prettier I'll be!" Now, this was said in fun, for she was the merriest of all the hens, though otherwise, as we have said, thoroughly respectable. And then she went to sleep.

It was dark all around; the hens sat side by side, and the one sitting nearest her was not asleep. She heard and did not hear, as one must in this world if one is to live in peace and quiet. Still, she felt obliged to tell her other neighbour: "Did you hear what was said just now? I name no names, but there's a hen who means to pluck herself to look pretty! If I were a cock, I should despise her!"

And just above the hens sat an owl with her husband and their children. That family had sharp ears: they heard every word the neighbouring hen said, and they rolled their eyes, while Mother Owl fanned herself with her wings. "Now, don't listen! But I suppose you heard what was said? I heard it with my own ears, and the things one's ears must hear before they fall off! There's a hen who has so utterly forgotten what is proper for a hen that she's sitting there plucking out all her feathers and letting the cock watch!"

"Prenez garde aux enfants!" said Father Owl. "This is no talk for children!" "Still, I must tell the owl across the way! She's such a respectable owl to know!" And off Mother flew.

"Hoo-hoo! Hoo-hoo!" the two of them hooted, straight down into the dovecote across the way. "Have you heard? Have you heard? Hoo-hoo! There's a hen who has plucked out all her feathers for the cock's sake! She'll freeze to death, if she hasn't already! Hoo-hoo!"

"Where? Where?" cooed the pigeons. "In the yard across the way! I've practically seen it myself! It's almost too improper a story to tell! But it's perfectly true!"

"We do, we do believe every word!" said the pigeons, and cooed down to their poultry yard: "There's a hen—indeed, some say there are two—who have plucked out all their feathers so as not to look like the others, and so attract the cock's attention. It's a dangerous game: you can catch a chill and die of a fever, and both of them are dead!"

"Wake up! Wake up!" crowed the cock, flying up onto the fence. Sleep was still in his eyes, but he crowed all the same: "Three hens have died of unrequited love for a cock! They had plucked out all their feathers! It's a horrible story. I won't keep it to myself—pass it on!"

"Pass it on!" squeaked the bats, and the hens clucked and the cocks crowed: "Pass it on! Pass it on!" And so the story flew from henhouse to henhouse, until at last it came back to the very place where it had begun.

"There are five hens," the story went, "who all plucked out their feathers to show which of them had grown thinnest from pining for the cock, and then they pecked one another bloody and fell down dead, to the shame and disgrace of their families and at great loss to their owner!"

And the hen who had lost the little loose feather naturally did not recognise her own story, and, being a respectable hen, she said: "I despise those hens! But there are more of their kind! Such things must not be hushed up, and I shall do my part to get that story into the newspaper, so it can go all over the country. Those hens deserve it, and their families too!"

And it got into the newspaper, and it was printed, and it's perfectly true: one little feather can indeed turn into five hens!

Izvirnik

Eventyr af Hans Christian Andersen

"Det er en frygtelig historie!" sagde en høne, og det omme i den kant af byen, hvor historien ikke var passeret. "Det er en frygtelig historie i hønsehuset! jeg tør ikke sove alene i nat! det er godt at vi er mange sammen på hjalet!" – Og så fortalte hun, så at fjerene rejste sig på de andre høns og hanen lod kammen falde. Det er ganske vist!

Men vi vil begynde med begyndelsen, og den var i den anden kant af byen i et hønsehus. Solen gik ned og hønsene fløj op; en af dem, hun var hvidfjeret og lavbenet, lagde sine reglementerede æg og var, som høne, respektabel i alle måder; idet hun kom til hjals, pillede hun sig med næbbet, og så faldt der en lille fjer af hende.

"Der gik den!" sagde hun, "jo mere jeg piller mig, des dejligere bliver jeg nok!" Og det var nu sagt i munterhed, for hun var det muntre sind mellem de høns, i øvrigt, som sagt, meget respektabel; og så sov hun.

Mørkt var det rundt om, høne sad ved høne og den, som sad hende nærmest, sov ikke; hun hørte og hun ikke hørte, som man jo skal i denne verden, for at leve i sin gode rolighed; men sin anden naboerske måtte hun dog sige det: "Hørte du hvad her blev sagt? Jeg nævner ingen, men der er en høne, som vil plukke sig, for at se godt ud! var jeg hane, ville jeg foragte hende!"

Og lige oven over hønsene sad uglen med uglemand og uglebørn; de har skarpe ører i den familie, de hørte hvert ord, som nabohønen sagde, og de rullede med øjnene og uglemor viftede sig med vingerne: "Hør bare ikke efter! men I hørte sagtens hvad der blev sagt? Jeg hørte det med mine egne ører, og man skal høre meget før de falder af! Der er en af hønsene, som i den grad har glemt, hvad der skikker sig en høne, at hun sidder og piller alle fjerene af sig og lader hanen se på det!"

"Prenez garde aux enfants!" sagde uglefader, "det er ikke noget for børnene!"

"Jeg vil dog fortælle genbougle det! det er sådan en agtværdig ugle i omgang!" og så fløj mutter.

"Hu-hu! uhuh!" tudede de begge to og det lige ned i genboens dueslag til duerne. "Har I hørt det! har I hørt det! uhuh! der er en høne, som har plukket alle fjerene af sig for hanens skyld! hun fryser ihjel, om hun ikke er det, uhuh!"

"Hvor? hvor?" kurrede duerne!

"I genboens gård! jeg har så godt som selv set det! det er næsten en upassende historie at fortælle! men det er ganske vist!"

"Tror, tror hvert evige ord!" sagde duerne, og kurrede ned til deres hønsegård: "Der er en høne, ja der er somme der siger, at der er to, som har plukket alle fjerene af sig, for ikke at se ud som de andre og således vække hanens opmærksomhed. Det er et voveligt spil, man kan forkøle sig og dø af feber, og de er døde begge to!"

"Vågn op! vågn op!" galede hanen og fløj op på plankeværket, søvnen sad ham endnu i øjnene, men han galede alligevel: "Der er tre høns døde af ulykkelig kærlighed til en hane! de havde plukket alle fjerene af sig! det er en fæl historie, jeg vil ikke beholde den, lad gå videre!"

"Lad gå videre!" peb flagermusene, og hønsene klukkede og hanerne galede: "Lad gå videre! lad gå videre!" og så fór historien fra hønsehus til hønsehus og til sidst tilbage til stedet, hvorfra den egentlig var gået ud.

"Der er fem høns," hed det, "som alle har plukket fjerene af sig, for at vise, hvem af dem der var blevet magrest af kærestesorg til hanen, og så hakkede de hinanden til blods og faldt døde ned, til skam og skændsel for deres familie og til stort tab for ejeren!"

Og hønen, som havde mistet den løse lille fjer, kendte naturligvis ikke sin egen historie igen, og da hun var en respektabel høne, så sagde hun: Jeg foragter de høns! men der er flere af den slags! Sligt skal man ikke fortie, og jeg vil gøre mit til, at den historie kan komme i avisen, så går den landet over; det har de høns fortjent og familien med!"

Og det kom i avisen og det blev trykt og det er ganske vist: En lille fjer kan nok blive til fem høns!

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