Ezra's Hiccup Moved the Barn
Out in the flat country, folks tell of a farm boy named Ezra Cobb who once got the biggest case of hiccups in history. It began after breakfast on a Tuesday, and at first Ezra hiccupped quietly, like any other boy. By noon, however, each hiccup had the power of a small earthquake.
With the first big hiccup, the pig pen shifted three feet to the left. With the second, the chicken coop hopped over the fence, and by supper, the red barn had scooted a full yard across the pasture, while the cows stood in a line, wondering where their house had gone.
Ezra's grandmother tried all the usual cures. She asked him to hold his breath, and the next hiccup knocked the clock off the wall. She asked him to stand on his head, and he hiccupped so hard that he landed in the hay.
At last, his little sister Pearl brought a cup of cold water and a slow, steady idea. "Count backward from twenty," she said, "and take a sip between every number."
Ezra tried it. Seventeen, sip. Twelve, sip. By the time he reached three, his hiccups had faded to a single small squeak.
The barn never moved back. It sat beside the pond, with a better view and shade from the willow tree, and Ezra's grandmother said it was the finest spot on the farm, and she thanked the hiccup for finding it.