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!”

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[Pg 143]
[Pg 144] 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.”