“My dear,” said the cock to the hen one day, “what do you say to our
taking a walk over to Mulberry Hill? The mulberries must be ripe by
now, and we can have a fine feast.”
“That would suit me exactly,” answered the hen. “I am very fond of ripe
fruit, and it is a long time since I have tasted any.” So the cock and
hen set off together.
The way was long, and the day was hot, and before the two had reached
the top of the hill they were both of them tired and out of breath. The
mulberries lay thick on the ground, and the cock and the hen ran about
hither and yon, pecking and eating—pecking and eating, until they could
eat no more, and the sun was near setting.
“Oh! oh!” groaned the hen, “how weary I am. How in the world are we to
get home again. My legs are so tired, I could not go another step if my
life depended on it.”
“My dear,” said the cock, “I too am weary, but I see here a number of
fallen twigs. If I could but weave them into a coach we might ride home
in comfort.”
“That is a clever thought,” sighed the hen. “Make it by all means.
There is nothing I like better than riding in a coach.”
The cock at once set to work, and by weaving sticks and grasses
together he made a little coach with body, wheels, and shafts all
complete.
The hen was delighted. She at once hopped into the coach, and seated
herself. “Now, my dear Cock-a-lorum,” she cried, “nothing more is
needed but for you to get between the shafts and step out briskly, and
we will be at home in less than no time.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the cock sharply. “I have no idea
of pulling the coach myself. My legs ache as well as yours, and if you
wait for me to pull you home you may sit there till doomsday.”
“But how then are we to get home?” asked the hen, beginning to weep.
“I do not know,” answered the cock. “But what I do know is that I am
not going to pull you.”
“But you must pull me,” wept the hen.
“But I won’t pull you,” stormed the cock.
So they scolded and disputed and there is no knowing how it would have
ended, but suddenly a duck appeared from behind some bushes.
When the duck saw the hen and the cock it ruffled up its feathers and
waddled toward them, quacking fiercely. “What is this! What is this!”
cried the duck. “Do you not know that this hill belongs to me? Be off
at once or I will give you a sound beating.”
It flew at the cock with outspread wings. The cock, however, was
a brave little fellow. Instead of running away he met the duck
valiantly, and seizing it he pulled out a beakful of feathers. The hen
shrieked, but the cock continued to punish the duck until it cried for
mercy.
“Very well,” said the cock, settling his feathers. “I will let you
go this time, but only if you will promise to draw our coach to the
nearest inn, where we can spend the night.”
The duck was afraid to refuse the cock’s demand. He put himself between
the shafts, the cock mounted the coach and cracked his whip, and away
they all went as fast as the duck could waddle. The coach rocked and
bumped over the stones, and suddenly the duck gave a jump that almost
upset it. “Ouch! ouch!” it cried. “Something stuck me.”
“I do well to stick you,” replied a small sharp voice. “I may teach you
to look where you are going, and not step on honest travelers who are
smaller than you.”
The voice was that of a needle, who, with a pin for a comrade, was
journeying along the same road.
The cock looked out from the coach. “I am sorry,” said he, “that my
duck should be so careless. Will you not get in and ride with us?”
This the pin and the needle were glad to do. The hen was somewhat
nervous at first, lest one of them might tread on her foot, but they
were so polite, and so careful not to crowd her, that she soon lost her
fear of them.
Just before nightfall the coach reached the door of an inn. Here the
duck stopped, and the cock called loudly for the landlord.
The man came running, but when he saw the strange guests that sat in
the coach he almost shut the door on them. “We want no ragamuffins
here,” he cried.
“Wait a bit,” cried the cock. “Just see this fine white egg that the
hen has laid. And every morning the duck lays an egg also. Both of
these shall be yours if you will take us in for the night.”
Well, the landlord was willing to agree to that bargain. He bade the
companions enter and make themselves comfortable. This they did,
eating and drinking to their hearts’ content. Then the cock and the
hen made themselves comfortable in the best bed, and the others tucked
themselves away as best they could.
As soon as they were all asleep the landlord said to his wife, “Listen!
This is a fine bargain that I have made. Roast duck is very good, and
so is chicken pie, and to-morrow our travelers shall furnish us with
both of them. As for the needle and pin you can put them away in your
work-basket, and they will always be useful.”
After saying this the landlord and his wife also went to sleep, for the
landlord intended to be up early in the morning before his guests had
wakened.
The cock, however, was not one to let anyone catch him sleeping. While
it was still dark the next morning, he awakened the hen. “Come,” said
he; “we’d best be up and away. This landlord of ours seems to me a sly
and greedy man; he might take a notion to have roast chicken for dinner
to-day, so we had better be gone before he is stirring.”
To this the hen agreed, but she and the cock were both hungry, so
before starting they shared the egg between them. The shells they threw
in among the ashes on the hearth. Then they took the needle and stuck
it in the back of the landlord’s chair; the pin they put in the towel
that hung behind the door, and this done they took to their wings and
away they flew.
The sound of their going awoke the duck. It opened its eyes and looked
after them. “Well, well! So they’re off. I think I’d better be moving
myself,” and so saying it waddled down to the river, and swam back to
the place whence it had come.
It was not long after this the landlord himself awoke. “I’ll just slip
down and see to the travelers before breakfast,” said he.
“Do,” answered his wife.
First, however, the landlord stopped to wash in the kitchen. He picked
up the towel to dry his face, and the pin that was in it scratched
him from ear to ear. He went to the hearth to light his pipe and the
egg-shells flew up in his face. He sat down in his chair for a moment,
but scarcely had he leaned back, when he jumped up with a cry. The
needle had run into him.
“It is all the fault of those ragamuffins,” cried the landlord in a
rage, and he caught up a knife and ran to find them. But search as he
might there was not a sign of them anywhere, for they were already
safely home again.
So all the landlord had for his trouble after all, was his pains.
[Illustration]