This is a sad story. It is not pleasant to tell sad stories, but if
they were not told once in a while, people would never know what
really happens in the world. And surely you would not wish to miss
hearing of what was really the most exciting happening of all, during
that first summer after the Man bought the farm.
You remember having heard something about the Young Cock. Before the
coming of the White Plymouth Rocks, there had been only three Cocks on
the farm. The Shanghai Cock was the oldest, and a very grumpy fowl,
but quite sensible in spite of that. The White Cock was somewhat
younger than the Shanghai, and was not a very strong fellow. He was
always unhappy about something, and it was said that he did not eat
enough gravel. If that was true, he should not have expected to be
well, since his stomach would then have no way of grinding up his food
and getting the strength out of it. The Young Cock was a strong and
exceedingly conceited fellow. You probably know what conceited people
are. They are the people who think themselves very clever, but who are
not really so.
This last one was always called the Young Cock, because the other two
were so much older than he, although by this time he was old enough to
be over such foolishness as bragging and picking quarrels with others.
He had feathers of many colors in his coat, and thought that one of
his great-great-great-grandfathers had been a Game Cock. Game Cocks,
you know, are often very beautiful to look at, and are great fighters.
He was not really sure about any of his family except his mother,
who had died the year before, and was a very common-looking Hen
of no particular breed. However, he had thought and talked so
much about Game Cocks that he had come really to believe in this
great-great-great-grandfather. It is good to have fine grandparents,
and it is good to remember them and try to be the right sort of
grandchildren for their sakes, but having fine grandparents does not
always make people themselves equally fine, and it is not wise to talk
too much about what they have been. It is better to pay more attention
to being what one should.
All summer the Young Cock had been growing more and more annoying in
his ways. He made fun of everybody whom he did not like, and sometimes
even of those whom he did. He crowed and strutted and strutted and
crowed. He called the Barred Plymouth Rock Hen "an old fogy," and the
Brown Hen "an old fuss." The Barred Plymouth Rock Hen was not an old
fogy, but a middle-aged and very sensible fowl, and although the Brown
Hen was quite fussy, she was older than the Young Cock, and he should
not have spoken of her in that way.
He did not always go to roost quite as soon as the other fowls and,
if he found one of them in the place which he wanted, he often pushed
and shoved until he had the place and the other fowl landed on the
floor. "Get off of there," the Young Cock would say. "I want that
place. Move along or get off!"
When he was really very young, the older fowls had hoped that he would
outgrow his rude and quarrelsome ways, so they stood it much longer
than they should. Now he was older and there was not a single excuse
to be found for him. He might better have been punished for it when
young, because then he would have been well-behaved when grown up.
One morning he fluttered down from his perch in a very bad temper.
Some of the Pullets, or young Hens, had been making fun of him the
night before and comparing him with the White Plymouth Rock Cock. They
meant only to tease him, but it had made him cross, and he awakened
even more cross after his night's sleep. He decided to show those
Pullets that he was not to be laughed at. He was thinking of this
when he stalked out into the yard. Some of the White Plymouth Rock
Chickens ran along on the other side of the wire fence, peeping
prettily and wanting to talk with him.
"Go back to your mother," he said. "What business have you to be
tagging me around like this? I don't want to talk to you. Chickens
should not speak until they are spoken to. Run!"
Of course they ran. You would if you were a Chicken and a Cock should
speak to you in that way. They ran to their mother, and it took her a
long time to comfort them.
Next the Young Cock stepped directly across the path of the Shanghai
Cock, stopping him in his morning walk. The Hens who saw it done
expected the Shanghai Cock to fight him on the spot, but they saw
nothing of the sort. The Shanghai Cock did not think it worth while.
The saucy Pullets were eating in a corner of the yard and chattering
over their corn.
"Wouldn't it be fun to see the Young Cock get punished by the
Shanghai?" one of them said.
"Why don't you like him?" asked another.
"I do like him," answered the first. "I like him very much, but he is
conceited and brags so that I wish somebody would teach him a lesson."
"Look!" cried another. "He is picking a quarrel with the White Cock."
They looked and saw him standing in front of the White Cock with his
head lowered, staring steadily at him. The White Cock looked as though
he did not care to fight, but being no coward, he would not turn his
tail toward the other and run away. He simply stood where he was, and
whenever the Young Cock lowered his head the White Cock lowered his.
Whenever the Young Cock gave a little upward jerk to his head, the
White Cock did the same. At first he was only trying to protect
himself and be ready for a blow if the Young Cock should begin to
fight in earnest. Pretty soon he began to think that he would beat him
if he could. He thought it might be a good time to teach him
something. After that both fought as hard as they could, staring,
ducking, bobbing, fluttering, pecking, and striking with their bills
and the sharp spurs that grew on their legs. It ended by the White
Cock staggering and running away from the blows, while the other stood
proudly where he was and crowed and crowed and crowed.
The Young Cock did not beat because he understood the movements to be
made any better than the other. He beat only because he was younger
and stronger. He did not look toward the Pullets, feeling quite sure
that they were looking toward him and admiring him. He flew onto the
top rail of the pasture fence and crowed as loudly as he could.
"Cock-a-doodle-doo!" said he. "I have beaten him! I have beaten him!"
The Shanghai Cock looked at him with great displeasure. "Something
will happen to that young fellow some day," said he, "and after that
he will not crow so much."
The Pullets heard him say this and were scared. They did not wish
anything dreadful to happen to him. One of them wanted to tell the
Young Cock what they had overheard, but the others would not let her.
It was not long after this, in fact it was before the Hens had come
out of the large open gate of their yard, that the Young Cock picked
up and ate a grain of corn which the Shanghai Cock had already bent
over to eat. The older Cock did not like this, and he said so very
plainly. The Young Cock lowered his head and looked the Shanghai Cock
squarely in the eye. "If you don't like my way of eating," he said in
his rudest tone, "you can try to punish me."
"I will try it with pleasure," replied the Shanghai Cock, and they
stared and ducked and hopped and fluttered and jumped and struck at
each other with feet and bill, until the Young Cock had really beaten
the Shanghai. It should have been the other way, yet it was not, for
the Shanghai was growing old and fat, and could not get around so
quickly as the Young Cock.
Of course the Pullets were glad, but nobody else was. "There will be
no getting along with him at all after this," the Hens said. "If he
had been well beaten for once, he might have learned manners." They
paid no attention to the Cocks who were beaten, for that would not be
thought polite among fowls. Instead, they walked about as usual,
pretending that they had not noticed what was going on, and twisting
their necks, lifting their feet, and dusting themselves in the most
matter-of-fact way.
The Young Cock flew onto the fence again. "Cock-a-doodle-doo!" said
he. "Cock-a-doodle-doo! I can beat them all! I can beat them all!" He
strutted back and forth there for a time, and then flew to the top of
the old carriage-house. Here he strutted and crowed and crowed and
strutted, while the fowls in the pasture below looked at him and
wondered how he dared go so high.
Suddenly the Shanghai Cock, who had been quietly trying to arrange his
feathers after the fight, saw a large, dark bird swooping down from
the sky and gave a queer warning cry. "Er-ru-u-u-u-u!" he said. "Run!
Run!"
[Illustration: A LARGE DARK BIRD SWOOPING DOWN. _Page 142_]
The White Cock spoke at almost the same time. "Er-ru-u-u-u-u! Run!
Run!"
Then all the Hens and Pullets put down their heads and ran as fast as
they could for the poultry-house, which was near. The Shanghai Cock
and the White Cock waited to let them pass, and then followed in after
them. It is a law among fowls that the Cocks must protect the Hens
from all danger.
Because these two had to wait so long for the Hens and Pullets to get
inside, they were still where they could see quite plainly when the
bird, a large Eagle, swooped down to the roof of the carriage-house
and caught the Young Cock up in his talons. The Young Cock had not
seen him coming until he was almost there. He had been too much
interested in watching the fowls on the ground below. When he saw the
Eagle it was too late to get away.
As the Eagle flew upward once more, all the fowls ran out to watch
him. They could see the Young Cock struggling as the sharp talons of
the Eagle held him tightly. "Poor fellow!" said the Pullets. The Cocks
were wise enough to keep still. The Hens murmured something to
themselves which nobody else could understand. Only the Plymouth Rock
Hen said very much about it, and that was because she had children to
bring up. One of the Young Cock's tail-feathers floated down from the
sky and fell into their yard. "Leave it right there," she said. "Leave
it there, and every time you look at it, I want you to remember that
the Cock to whom it belonged might now be having a pleasant time on
this farm, if he had not been quarrelsome and bragged."