THE STORY OF COQUERICO
Hear the story of this one.
He was a queer-looking little creature. He came out in the brood of a handsome black Spanish hen. All his brothers and sisters were as pretty as you would see in a day’s walk, but he was very odd-looking. He had only one good eye, one good wing, and one good leg to carry him about, hippety-hop, hippety-hop. When his mother saw he was crippled, she at once loved him best, and gave him the splendid name of Coquerico. But hear about him.
Maybe you think a one-eyed, one-armed, one-legged chick like Coquerico would be good and gentle. Why, if one of his brothers ran against him without meaning to, Coquerico flew at the poor fellow and called him names. And he was so conceited that he thought himself better than his brothers and sisters, and that he knew more than his mother.
So one day he hippety-hopped up to his mother and said, “My lady mother, I am too good for this family; I should be in the king’s court. I’m off to Madrid, where the king lives.”
“What are you thinking of, my poor little one?” cried his mother. “Who has put such nonsense into your head? Where would my little crippled one find a home like this—mulberry trees to shade him, a white-washed henroost, a high dunghill, worms and corn in plenty, brothers and sisters that are fond of him, and a mother who loves him dearly. Stay where you are, my child; believe me I know what is best for you.”
“Do you think so?” said Coquerico, saucily. “I don’t. I wish to go out into the world, where everyone may hear of me, I am so clever. I’m off to Madrid to see the king.”
“But, my son, have you never looked in the brook?” asked his mother. “Don’t you know that you have only one eye, one wing, and one leg? To make your way in the world you need the sharp eyes of a fox, the swift wings of a hawk, and the many soft legs of a spider. Once outside, you are lost.”
“My good mother,” said Coquerico, just as saucily, “I am well able to take care of myself. I am better than my family and must find people who can see how clever I am. So I’m off to Madrid to see the king.”
“Well, my son,” said the anxious mother-hen, “listen to your mother’s last words. Keep away from people known as cooks and scullions; you will know them by their paper caps, tucked up sleeves, and great sharp knives.”
So away went Coquerico, making believe not to see the tear in his mother’s eye. Without caring for those he left, he hippety-hopped out the gate and stopped only long enough to crow three times, “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” Then over the fields he went hippety-hop, hippety-hop.
By and by he came to a small brook almost choked by a couple of dead leaves. “My friend,” it called out to him, “will you free me that I may flow on? One stroke of your beak is enough.”
“Do I look like a brook-sweeper?” answered Coquerico. “Help yourself; I’m off to Madrid to see the king.” And on he went, hippety-hop, hippety-hop.
A little farther on Coquerico saw the wind lying breathless on the ground. “Dear friend, help me,” it cried; “here on earth we should help one another. If you will fan me a little with your wing I shall have strength to rise to my place among the clouds, where I am needed for the next whirlwind.”
“Do I look like a wind-bellows,” answered Coquerico; “help yourself. I am off to Madrid to see the king.” And on he went, hippety-hop, hippety-hop.
A little farther on he came to a newly mown field, where the farmers had piled up the weeds to burn them. As he stopped his hippety-hop to search among a smoking heap for a kernel of corn, he saw a little flame, barely flickering, it was so nearly out.
“My dear friend,” cried the flame, faintly, “will you bring me a few dry straws to rekindle me that I may burn brightly?”
“Do I look like a servant?” cried Coquerico, haughtily; “I’ll teach you to call out to a fowl that has business with the king.” And he leaped on the heap of dried weeds and trampled it down till it smothered the flame! Then he flapped his one wing and crowed three times, “Cock-a-doodle-doo,” as if he had done something to be proud of.
And so strutting and crowing, though he had to go hippety-hop, he arrived at Madrid and the king’s palace. Grand and beautiful as it was, he did not stop to look at it, but made for the hen yard, stopping every second step to crow, “Cock-a-doodle,” to tell the king and all the world he was coming.
In the hen yard there was of course no king, but a boy with a paper cap on his head and sleeves tucked up and a great sharp knife in his hand. “A scullion, I suppose,” said Coquerico to himself, “but he will not stop me; I have business with the king.”
“Well, you’re an odd one,” cried the boy, coming over to look at the new-comer. “Cook wants a rare bird for the king’s dinner, you’re just in time.” And he seized Coquerico and carried him into the kitchen.
Here the cook popped him into a pot of water and left him, and with the boy went out of the kitchen to attend to something else.
The water began to get warm and then hot. “Oh, Madame Water,” cried Coquerico, becoming all at once as meek as a dove, “good and gentle water, best and purest in the world, do not scald me, I beg of you.”
“Did you show any pity, selfish wretch?” answered the Water, boiling with indignation. Coquerico leaped out of the pot, knocking off the cover, only to land on the fire.
“Oh, Fire, Fire, do not burn me,” he cried, dancing around on his back; “oh, beautiful and brilliant flame, brother of the sun, and cousin of the shining diamond, do not roast me.”
“Did you have any pity, you selfish wretch?” cried the Fire, blazing so fiercely with anger that the chick in frightful pain leaped out of a window near by.
But as he landed on the flagging the Wind caught him and whirled him up. “Oh, Wind,” shrieked Coquerico, faintly, “oh, kindly Wind, oh, cooling breeze, you make me so dizzy my head reels. Pray let me down that I may rest.”
“Let you rest,” roared the Wind, “wait and I’ll teach you, you selfish wretch.”
And with one blast it sent him up so high that as he fell down he stuck on a steeple.
There, if you look, you may see him to this very day, forced at last to help others in this world, a weathervane.
—Spanish folk tale