One of the great mistakes is to judge policies and programs by their intentions rather than their results.
Milton Friedman
There is a nice fairy tale called «The Little Red Hen», which exists in multiple versions. As I am currently exploring storytelling a bit, I used the 1918 version from Florence White Williams («The Little Red Hen: An Old English Folk Tale»), with some inspiration from Sara Cone Bryant’s «Stories to Tell to Children», which contains a very short version of «The Little Red Hen», and the general idea of Ronald Reagan’s 1976’s version «The Modern Little Red Hen». I also went over my adaptation with ChatGPT to improve structure and English.
The first part makes the point that those who deliberately refuse to contribute cannot automatically claim an equal share of what others produce. It works as a stand-alone tale. The continuation leans strongly in the Reagan version, a system that depends upon effort while systematically weakening the reason to exert effort consumes its own foundation, but with a more optimistic ending (the hen version of going Galt).
The Little Red Hen
A Little Red Hen lived in a barnyard. Like the other hens, she spent most of her days walking about the yard, cluck-cluck, scratching here and there for worms. And each evening, she laid an egg.
One spring day, the Little Red Hen found a few seeds. They had fallen out of a bag and lain forgotten on the ground. As they were not worms, the other hens had ignored them.
But the Little Red Hen was curious about them, and asked here and there what they might be. She found out that they were wheat seeds. If they were planted, they would grow up into wheat. When the wheat was ripe, it could be made into flour. And then the flour could be turned into bread.
The hens had only ever had old, dry pieces of bread from the farmer, so the thought of fresh-baked bread excited the Little Red Hen greatly.
So she resolved to plant the seeds and, when the wheat was ripe, bake fresh bread.
She went to the other hens and told them what she meant to do, but they only clucked and mucked about.
«Fresh bread may be very fine,» said the first hen, «but worms are here already, and the sun is warm.»
«Seeds fail, mills crush, ovens burn,» cried the second hen. «Better not meddle with such things.»
«I have never made bread from a seed, I would not know where to begin,» said the third.
«We can find out together,» said the Little Red Hen.
«No,» said the third hen, «I would rather know before I begin.»
And then they and the other hens went on walking and picking about the barnyard.
Still, the Little Red Hen called loudly:
«Who will help plant the seed?»
«Not I,» said each hen.
«Well, then,» said the Little Red Hen, «I will.»
And she did.
She scratched little furrows in the ground and carefully put the seeds in. Then she covered them with dirt, filled a tiny cup with water, and poured it over her small field.
The other hens laughed when her precious seeds vanished under the earth.
«That is not how we do it,» said one of them, and scratched up a worm.
But the Little Red Hen stood looking over the dark little field where nothing could be seen. Then, with earth under her claws and an ache in her back from bending so low, she went back into the henhouse and laid her egg.
She went on with her daily duties through the long summer days, like the other hens, scratching for worms and laying eggs. All the while, beneath the ground, the seeds split and the plants grew. First they broke through the earth. Then they grew high up in the summer air.
One day, the Little Red Hen noticed that the wheat stood tall, and that its heavy heads were bending. Along the far sky, a dark cloud had gathered, and in the hedge the sparrows had begun to watch.
So she told the other hens that it was time for harvest, but they only clucked and mucked about.
«The sun is shining so warmly,» said the first hen, «I absolutely must spread my feathers in it.»
«The sickle is sharp,» cried the second hen. «It may take off a toe.»
«How should we know where to cut it?» asked the third hen.
«We can try and learn,» said the Little Red Hen.
«No, thank you,» said the third hen. «We would waste too much.»
And then they and the other hens went on walking and picking about the barnyard.
Still, the Little Red Hen called loudly:
«Who will help cut the wheat?»
«Not I,» said each hen.
«Well, then,» said the Little Red Hen, «I will.»
And she did.
She fetched a sickle from the farmer’s tools and cut the wheat. She worked all day, until in the evening the wheat lay on the ground. The later cuts were neater than the first, but all of it was ready to be gathered and threshed. The sickle had nicked her toe, and she had bound it with a straw. But she was glad of what she had done, and went back into the henhouse and laid her egg.
The next day, she needed to thresh the wheat. So she told the other hens about it, but they only clucked and mucked about.
«It is noisy, troublesome work,» said the first hen, «and I like a quiet yard.»
«If we beat the wheat, we shall ruin it,» cried the second hen. «Or the dust will choke us.»
«How is grain separated?» asked the third hen.
«We shall see what works,» said the Little Red Hen.
«No, thank you,» said the third hen. «I do not want to make a fool of myself.»
And then they and the other hens went on walking and picking about the barnyard.
Still, the Little Red Hen called loudly:
«Who will help me thresh the wheat?»
«Not I,» said each hen.
«Well, then,» said the Little Red Hen, «I will.»
And she did.
She threshed it all day, again and again, until in the evening the grain lay cleanly separated from the chaff. Her neck ached from lifting and striking. But she was glad of what she had done, and went back into the henhouse and laid her egg.
The next day, she needed to grind the wheat. So she told the other hens about it, but they only clucked and mucked about.
«That is dull, hard work,» said the first hen, «and the worms are close at hand.»
«The millstone crushes whatever comes beneath it,» cried the second hen. «It may crush your claws as well.»
«I cannot turn the stone by myself,» said the third hen, «so what use would I be?»
«You do not have to do everything,» said the Little Red Hen. «You can help me push.»
«No, thank you,» said the third hen. «That is not the real work.»
And then they and the other hens went on walking and picking about the barnyard.
Still, the Little Red Hen called loudly:
«Who will help grind the wheat?»
«Not I,» said each hen.
«Well, then,» said the Little Red Hen, «I will.»
And she did.
She put the wheat into a sack and carried it all the way to the nearest mill. There she turned the grindstone and ground the wheat into beautiful white flour. She looked in wonder at what the wheat had become. Then she put the flour into the sack and carried it all the way back to the barnyard. She came home weary and white with dust. But she was glad of what she had done, and went back into the henhouse and laid her egg.
The next morning, she would gladly have slept longer. But then she thought that today the wheat must somehow be made into bread.
That, too, was new to her. She did not yet know the baking of bread. But there was a recipe, and she meant to follow it with care.
So she told the other hens about it, but they only clucked and mucked about.
«The kitchen is hot,» said the first hen, «and the shade is cool.»
«Fire eats what is given to it,» cried the second hen. «The bread may burn, and so may you.»
«I have never set dough,» said the third hen. «I do not know how long it must rise.»
«Then we shall watch it carefully,» said the Little Red Hen.
«No, thank you,» said the third hen. «I should only be blamed if it failed.»
And then they and the other hens went on walking and picking about the barnyard.
Still, the Little Red Hen called loudly:
«Who will help bake the bread?»
«Not I,» said each hen.
«Well, then,» said the Little Red Hen, «I will.»
And she did.
She put on an apron and a cook’s cap. First she set the dough, as was proper. When it was time, she brought out the molding board and the baking tins, molded the bread, divided it into loaves, and put them into the oven to bake.
All the while the other hens were lying in the sun or picking for worms.
The Little Red Hen went to and fro before the oven, not too near and not too far. A singed feather had already taught her the heat of fire. Yet she could not stand too far away. If the bread burned now, the seed in the dark earth, the wheat in the summer wind, the nick of the sickle, the beaten grain, the turning millstone, and all her weary steps would end in ashes. Though the fire would not burn what her claws had learned.
At last, the great moment came. A delicious odor went out on the breeze and passed over the barnyard. Everywhere the hens lifted their heads and sniffed the air with delight.
The Little Red Hen did not know whether the bread would be fit to eat, or whether it would be better than the dry leftovers the farmer gave them.
But joy of joys — when she drew the lovely brown loaves from the oven, they were done to perfection, with a firm, crisp crust and a warm, soft heart.
The other hens were standing before the kitchen.
«I will help you eat the bread,» said the first hen.
«And I will,» said the second hen, quite softly, for the fire was shut away now, and the bread was baked.
«And I will show you the proper way to eat it,» said the third hen.
And all the other hens cried, «I will, I will!»
But the Little Red Hen said, «No, you won’t,» and shut the kitchen door in their faces.
«I will.»
And she did.
Possible Continuation of the Tale
But bread once baked is not easily forgotten.
All through the winter there was much whispering in the henhouse. Beaks came close together in the straw. Wings rustled on the roost. Again and again the hens remembered the warm smell of the bread the Little Red Hen had baked. And again and again they remembered that none of it had passed their beaks.
They still scratched for worms. They still ate the old dry pieces of bread the farmer threw them. But now that they knew what bread might be, the old pieces seemed older and drier than before.
One evening, while the Little Red Hen was outside scratching for worms and looking for fallen seeds, the hens gathered in the henhouse to speak of bread.
«No hen should have more bread than another,» said the first hen. «That is fairness.»
«And no hen should keep bread to herself,» cried the second hen. «That is greed.»
«Besides,» said the third hen, «the wheat grew beside our henhouse. We all live here. So surely what grows here belongs to us all.»
«Yes, yes,» said the other hens. «We are all hens together.»
Then three hens flew up to the highest perch, ruffled their feathers, and called themselves the Henhouse Council.
From that high place they scratched marks in the dust below and counted shares of bread that had not been baked.
«One share for this hen, and one share for that hen,» said the first hen, «and no more for the Little Red Hen than for any other.»
«For if she keeps more,» cried the second hen, «she will be greedy.»
«Since she knows how bread is made,» said the third hen, «she can make it for all of us. Then she may have her share, and who could call that unfair?»
«Yes, yes,» said the other hens. «That is fairness.»
The Henhouse Council ruffled its feathers again.
«And she will want to remain among us,» said the first hen, «for the winter is cold and hens must stand close for warmth.»
«And we are many,» cried the second hen, «and she is one.»
«And if she will not listen,» said the third hen, «perhaps the farmer may be made to listen.»
«Yes, yes,» said the other hens. «We hens stand together.»
When the Little Red Hen returned and shook the snow from her feathers, the hens told her what had been decided.
She listened. She looked at the three hens on the highest perch. She looked at the marks scratched in the dust for loaves that had not been baked and for wheat that was not yet in the ground. She looked at all the beaks turned toward her, not asking, but waiting.
Then she said nothing.
She went to her spot in the henhouse and laid her egg.
When spring came, the Little Red Hen was scratching for worms when she found a few fallen seeds.
She knew at once what they were. She saw the dark earth, the summer wheat, the sickle, the threshing, the millstone, the flour, the oven, and the loaf. She saw it all more clearly than before, for she had done it once already.
Then she looked back at the henhouse.
Inside, the Henhouse Council was on the highest perch again. They were arguing with the hens below about how many shares a council hen should have, for sitting high and counting bread was heavy work.
The Little Red Hen looked at the seeds again.
For a moment she thought of eating them. Then she shuddered at the thought of swallowing so much potential. The seeds could be so much more than food for one morning.
Finally the Little Red Hen said to herself, ‹Not in this henhouse.›
Then she looked across the yard to another barn.
She went there carefully, to get the measure of those who lived within. She spoke of seed and wheat, of flour and bread — and all the toil that lay between. And when she asked who would help plant the seeds, they came out from the barn and set themselves to work.
By evening, the seeds were in the ground, and the Little Red Hen found a dry, warm spot in the barn and laid her egg there.
And when the wheat had grown, and had been cut, threshed, ground, and baked, everyone who had shared the work shared the loaf.
In the old henhouse, the hens still gathered beneath the highest perch. They scratched lines in the dust, made shares within shares, called each new division fairer than the last, and argued until every beak had been counted twice.
But there was no smell from the oven, no loaf on the board, no crust in the beak.