"Where do all your eggs go to?" Paul asked the speckled Hen.
"To the city," she cackled.
"Who eats them there?"
"The rich people, the rich people." Thus spoke the hen proudly, as though it were a special honor for her.
"Why don't I ever have an egg?" complained Paul. "I am always so hungry, you know."
"Because you are a poor Have-nothing." And the hen spread her plumage with dignity, and cocked her eye defiantly at Paul over her crooked beak.
"But why am I a poor Have-nothing?"
Now the hen became angry as had the stout Matron, and raged: "Get off with you! You make me tired with your questions."
Disappointed, Paul slipped quietly away. The garden door stood open, and he stepped out onto the road, strolling along aimlessly until he came to the entrance of a cowshed. The shed belonged to a rich farmer.
Many sleek cows, white and reddish brown, stood in a row and gazed before them with large, soft eyes. Paul, feeling very hungry, stepped up to the most friendly looking cow, and begged, "Dear Cow, will you give me some of your milk to drink?"
"I dare not do that," replied the Cow. "The milk belongs to the farmer."
The little boy looked with astonishment at the Cow, then over the entire shed, slowly counting the animals: "One, two, three." Upon reaching twelve he stopped, for although there were many more cows, he stopped because the counting was too hard for him. In the poorhouse he was taught to be gentle and obedient, but nothing else. "Twelve cows," he said thoughtfully. "Is it possible that the farmer can drink the milk of twelve cows?"
