"King John, he called himself, but every human being about the farm of
Buttercup Hill called him Jock--simply that, and nothing else. But
Jock, or King John, there was one thing that nobody could deny--he was
not only the chief among all the other fowls around him, but he thought
himself a very important and a very exalted bird indeed; and no wonder
that he clapped his wings and crowed defiance at any one who chanced to
take particular notice of him, or that he asked in defiant tones, `Kok
_aik_ uk uk?' with strong emphasis on the `_aik_,' and which in English
means, `How dare you stand and stare at _me_?'
"King John's tail was a mass of nodding plumage of the darkest purple,
his wattles and comb were of the rosiest red, his wings and neck were
crimson and gold, and his batonlike legs were armed with spurs as long
as one's little finger, and stronger and sharper than polished steel.
Had you dared to go too near any one of his feathered companions--that
is, those whom he cared about--you would have repented it the very next
minute, and King John's spurs would have been brought into play. But
Jock wouldn't have objected to your admiring them, so long as you kept
at a respectable distance, on the other side of the fence, for instance.
And pretty fowls they were--most of them young too--golden-pencilled
Hamburgs, sprightly Spaniards, and sedate-looking Dorkings, to say
nothing of two ancient grand hens of no particular breed at all, but
who, being extremely fat and imposing in appearance, were admitted to
the high honour of roosting every night one on each side of the king,
and were moreover taken into consultation by him, in every matter likely
to affect the interests of his dynasty, or the welfare of the junior
members of the farmyard.
"Now Jock was deeply impressed with the dignity of the office he held.
He was a very proud king--though, to his credit be it said, he was also
a very good king. And never since he had first mounted his throne--an
old water-tub, by the way--and sounded his shrill clarion, shouting a
challenge to every cock or king within hearing--never, I say, had he
been known to fill his own crop of a morning until the crops of all the
hens about him were well packed with all good comestibles. Such then
was Jock, such was King John. But, mind you, this gallant bird had not
been a king all his life. No, and neither had he been born a prince.
There was a mystery about his real origin and species. Judging from the
colour of the egg from which he was hatched, Jock _ought_ to have been a
Cochin. But Jock was nothing of the sort, as one glance at our picture
will be sufficient to convince you. But I think it highly probable that
the egg in question was stained by some unprincipled person, to cause it
to look like that of the favourite Cochin. Be that as it may, Jock was
duly hatched, and in course of time was fully fledged, and one day
attempted to crow, for which little performance he was not only pecked
on the back by the two fat old hens, but chased all round the yard by
King Cockeroo, who was then lord and master of the farmyard. When he
grew a little older he used to betake himself to places remote from
observance, and study the song of chanticleer. But the older he grew
the prettier he grew, and the prettier he grew the more King Cockeroo
seemed to dislike him; indeed, he thrashed him every morning and every
evening, and at odd times during the day, so that at last Jock's life
became most unbearable. One morning, however, when glancing downwards
at his legs, he observed that his spurs had grown long and strong and
sharp, and after this he determined to throw off for ever the yoke of
allegiance to cruel King Cockeroo; he resolved to try the fortune of war
even, and if he lost the battle, he thought to himself he would be no
worse off than before.
"Now on the following day young Jock happened to find a nice large
potato, and said he to himself, `Hullo! I'm fortunate to-day; I'll have
such a nice breakfast.'
"`Will you indeed?' cried a harsh voice quite close to his ear, and he
found himself in the dread presence of King Cockeroo, a very large
yellow Cochin China. `Will you indeed?' repeated his majesty. `How
dare _you_ attempt to eat a _whole_ potato. Put it down at once and
leave the yard.'
"`I won't,' cried the little cock, quite bravely.
"`Then I'll make you,' roared the big one.
"`Then I shan't,' was the bold reply.
"Now, like all bullies, King Cockeroo was a coward at heart, so the
battle that followed was of short duration, but very decisive for all
that, and in less than five minutes King Cockeroo was flying in
confusion before his young but victorious enemy.
"When he had left the yard, the long-persecuted but now triumphant Jock
mounted his throne--the afore-mentioned water-butt--and crew and crew
and crew, until he was so hoarse that he couldn't crow any longer; then
he jumped down and received the congratulations of all the inhabitants
of the farmyard. And that is how Jock became King John.
"The poor deposed monarch never afterwards dared to come near the yard,
in which he had at one time reigned so happily. He slept no longer on
his old roost, but was fain to perch all alone on the edge of the garden
barrow in the tool-house. He found no pleasure now in his sad and
sorrowful life, except in eating; and having no one to share his meals
with him, he began to get lazy and fat, and every day he got lazier and
fatter, till at last it was all he could do to move about with anything
like comfort. When he wanted to relieve his mind by crowing, he had to
waddle away to a safe distance from the yard, or else King John would
have flown upon him and pecked him most cruelly.
"And now those very fowls, who once thought so much of him, used to
laugh when they heard him crowing, and remark to young King John--
"`Just listen to that asthmatical old silly,' for his articulation was
not so distinct as it formerly was.
"`Kurr-r-r!' the new king would reply, `he'd better keep at a
respectable distance, or cock-a-ro-ri-ko! I'll--I'll eat him entirely
up!'
"`I think,' said the farmer of Buttercup Hill one day to his wife--`I
think we'd better have t'ould cock for our Sunday's dinner.'
"`Won't he be a bit tough?' his good wife replied.
"`Maybe, my dear,' said the farmer, `but fine and fat, and plenty of
him, at any rate.'
"Poor Cockeroo, what a fall was his! And oh! the sad irony of fate, for
on the very morning of this deposed monarch's execution, the sun was
shining, the birds singing, the corn springing up and looking so green
and bonny; and probably the last thing he heard in life was King John
crowing, as he proudly perched himself on the edge of his water-tub
throne. One could almost afford to drop a tear of pity for the dead
King Cockeroo, were it possible to forget that, while in life and in
power, he had been both a bully and a coward.
"But bad as bullying and cowardice are, there are other faults in many
beings which, if not eradicated, are apt to lead the possessors thereof
to a bad end. I have nothing to say against ambition, so long as it is
lawful and kept within due bounds, but pride is a bad trait in the
character of even old or young; and if you listen I will tell you how
this failing brought even brave and gallant King John to an untimely
end.
"After the death of King Cockeroo the pride of Jack knew no bounds. His
greatest enemy was gone, and there was not--so he thought--another cock
in creation who would dare to face him; for did they not all prefer
crowing at a distance, and did he not always answer them day or night,
and defy them? His bearing towards the other fowls began to change. He
still collected food for the hens, it is true, but he no longer tried to
coax them to eat it. They would doubtless, he said, partake of it if
they were hungry, and if they were not hungry, why, they could simply
leave it.
"Jack had never had much respect for human beings--_they_! poor helpless
things, had no wings to clap, and they couldn't crow; _they_ had no
pretty plumage of their own, but were fain to clothe themselves in
sheep's raiment or the cocoons of caterpillars; and _now_ he wholly
despised them, and showed it too, for he spurred the legs of Gosling the
ploughboy, and rent into ribbons the new dress of Mary the milkmaid,
because she had invaded his territory in search of eggs. Even the death
of the two favourite hens I have told you of, which took place somewhat
suddenly one Saturday morning, failed to sober him or tone down his
rampant pride. He installed two other very fat hens in their place on
the perch, and then crowed more loudly than ever.
"He spent much of his time now on his old throne; for it was always well
filled with water, which served the purpose of a looking-glass, and
reflected his gay and sprightly person, his rosy comb, and his nodding
plumes. He would sometimes invite a favourite fowl to share the honours
of his throne with him, but I really believe it was merely that its
plainer reflection might make his own beautiful image the more apparent.
"`Oh!' he would cry, `don't I look lovely, and don't you look dowdy
beside _me_? Kurr! Kurr-r-r! Am I not perfection itself?'
"Of course no one of the fowls in the yard dared to contradict him or
gainsay a word he spoke, but still I doubt whether they believed him to
be altogether such a very exalted personage as he tried to make himself
out.
"And now my little tale draws speedily to its dark, but not, I trust,
uninstructive close.
"The sun rose among clouds of brightest crimson one lovely summer's
morning, and his beams flooded all the beautiful country, making every
creature and everything glad, birds and beasts, flowers and trees, and
rippling streams. Alas! how often in this world of ours is the sunrise
in glory followed by a sunset in gloom. Noon had hardly passed ere
rock-shaped clouds began to bank up in the south and obscure the sun,
the wind fell to a dead calm, and the stillness became oppressive; but
it was broken at length by a loud peal of thunder, that seemed to rend
the earth to its very foundations. Then the sky grew darker and darker;
and the darker it grew, the more vividly the lightning flashed, the more
loudly pealed the thunder. Then the rain came down, such rain as
neither the good farmer of Buttercup Hill nor his wife ever remembered
seeing before. King John was fain to seek shelter for himself and his
companions under the garden seat, but even there they were drenched, and
a very miserable sight they presented.
"`Oh I what a terrible storm!' cried a wise old hen.
"`Who is afraid?' said the proud King John, stepping out into the midst
of it. `Behold my throne; it shall never be moved.'
"Dread omen! at that very moment a hoop suddenly sprang up with a loud
bang, the staves began to separate, and the water came pouring out
between them, deluging all the place, and well-nigh drowning one of the
two hens which had bravely tried to share Jock's peril with him!
"`Kur-r-r!' cried the king, astonishment and rage depicted on every
lineament of his countenance. `Kurr! kurr! what trickery is this? But,
behold, I have but to mount my throne and crow, and at once the thunder
and the rain will cease, and the sun will shine again!'
"He suited the action to the word, but, alas! the sun never shone again
for him. His additional weight completed the mischief, and the
tottering throne gave way with a crash.
"There was woe in the farmyard that day, for under the ruins of his
throne lay the lifeless body of Jock--the once proud, the once mighty
King John."
"Oh!" cried Ida, "but that is _too_ short. Pray, just one little one
more, then I will sleep. You shall play me to sleep. Let it be about a
dog," she continued. "You can always tell a story about a dog."