her back on a low roost that the rats and the weasels might not get it. Together the black hen and the white chicken hunted grasshoppers and scratched for worms, while the summer came and went; and by the time of the first frosts Madam Cluck's wee chick was a fine rooster, much taller than his mother, and already getting vain of his plumage.
But all of this happened two years ago; and since that time the fame of Sir Cock-a-doodle, my white rooster, has gone abroad through the countryside, both as a winner of first prizes at the fairs, and a faithful guardian of the farmyard. Even now I can hear the strong beating of his wings against his great breast, closely followed by that long, shrill war-cry that is the envy of all poultry-yards for half a mile around.
Sir Cock-a-doodle is probably standing on the barnyard fence, proud and erect, perfect in form and plumage, sounding his note of defiance to the neighboring cocks, while the hens walk admiringly up and down, saying to one another, "Isn't he magnificent?" and, "Did you hear that last fine note?" Such is the pride and vanity of the farmyard fowls; but well, they have reason to be proud of Sir Cock-a-doodle.
