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Once … I passed the edge of a huge ravine a foot deep, where a winged monster as big as myself attacked me, and I fled and wept. My father drew for me a picture of the tragedy with a rhyme beneath:

There was a small boy in Bombay
Who once from a hen ran away
When they said: ‘You’re a baby,’
He replied, ‘Well, I may be:
But I don’t like these hens of Bombay.’

This consoled me. I have thought well of hens ever since.

-Rudyard Kipling, Something of Myself

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