I pretended that I could pick out the feathers of particular hens, formerly my pets.

I reflected that they had fed me with eggs and broth, and now were going to make my bed so soft; while I had done nothing for them but throw them a handful of oats now and then, or chase them about, or spoil their nests.

I was not ashamed of my part; I knew that if I were a hen I should do as a hen does.

I just liked to think about things in my idle way.
Itke, the housemaid, was always the one to break in upon my reflections.

She was sure to have a fit of sneezing just when the heap on the table was highest, sending clouds of feathers into the air, like a homemade snowstorm.