Each Sunday the widow's eggs appeared at Glassworks market.
They were sold in Tambov and were even occasionally displayed in the windows of the former Chichkin's Cheese and Butter Shop in Moscow.
And now, the seventeenth brahmaputra that morning, their dear little crested hen, was walking round the yard vomiting.
The poor thing gurgled and retched, rolling her eyes sadly at the sun as if she would never see it again.
In front of her squatted co-operative-member Matryoshka with a cup of water.
Come on, Cresty dear... chuck-chuck-chuck... drink some water," Matryoshka begged, thrusting the cup under the hen's beak, but the hen would not drink.
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