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All about the little red hen.

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Then the Wicked Old Fox threw open his sack,
And in less than half a minute,
He had picked her up with a cry of joy,
And hastily stuffed her in it.

He swung it over his shoulder, smiled,
And started off for his den;
"How nice you'll be for supper!" said he,
"My dear Little Small Red Hen!"

So there she was, poor thing, you see,
Shut up quite tight in the sack;
She found it most unpleasant there,
Close and stuffy and black.

But she thought of her little scissors,
In her apron pocket hid.
"I will cut a hole and see where I am,"
She said. And so she did.

Now the sun was hot, and all the time
It was getting hotter still;
And the Wicked Old Fox grew very tired
As he climbed the heathy hill.

He dropped on mossy bank, and said--
"It may be lazy--but
I think I'll just have forty winks,"
And his wicked eyes blinked and shut.


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