The rooster with the reddest comb perched himself up on the gate-post to
crow. As he stretched his neck he caught sight of another rooster higher
up on the barn.
“I’ll have no one in this barnyard higher than I,” said he; “I am master
here.” And he flew up at the rooster. But his wings were so short that
he barely reached the edge of the roof. Had he fallen he would have been
disgraced before all the fowls in the barnyard. He was so furious at the
thought that he rushed up the sloping roof and pecked at the rooster
savagely. The rooster never budged.
“Ha, ha, silly cockscomb!” screamed Poll, the parrot, shaking with
laughter. “It serves you right. Did you hurt your beak? He isn’t a live
rooster at all. He’s only a weathervane.”