litl' rooster now a week in his Bomb shelter, feels no rumbling of Steam Traction Mo chines or the rattlin' of jugs in a wagon. Decides to look out side, The smell of burning hair and the black goo and feathers on the ground send shivers up his spine. >Was Chicken little right? the Sky was Falling< desides that dooms day must be near and saddles his horse and heads to Dunning.