I. HOW THEY WENT TO THE HILLS TO EAT NUTS
Chanticleer said to Partlet one day: “The nuts must be ripe; now we will go up the hill together and have a good feast before the squirrel carries them all off.”
“All right,” said Partlet, “come along; we’ll have a fine time.” So they went away up the hill, and, as it was a bright day, they stayed till evening.
Now whether they really had grown fat, or whether it was merely pride, I do not know, but, whatever the reason, they would not walk home, and Chanticleer had to make a little carriage of nut-shells. When it was ready, Partlet took her seat in it, and said to Chanticleer, “Now you get between the shafts.”
“That’s all very fine,” said Chanticleer, “but I would sooner go home on foot than put myself in harness. I will sit on the box and drive, but draw it myself, I never will.”
As they were squabbling over this, a duck quacked out: “You thievish folk! Who told you to come to my nut-hill? Just you wait, you will suffer for it.”
Then she rushed at Chanticleer with open bill, but he was not to be taken by surprise, and fell upon her with his spurs till she cried out for grace. At last she allowed herself to be harnessed to the carriage. Chanticleer seated himself on the box as coachman, and cried out unceasingly: “Now, duck, run as fast as you can.”
When they had driven a little way they met two foot passengers, a pin and a needle, who called out: “Stop! stop!” They said it would soon be pitch dark, and they couldn’t walk a step farther, the road was so dirty; might they not have a lift? They had been to the Tailor’s Inn by the gate, and had lingered over their beer.
As they were both very thin, and did not take up much room, Chanticleer allowed them to get in, but he made them promise not to tread either on his toes or on Partlet’s. Late in the evening they came to an inn, and as they did not want to drive any farther in the dark, and the duck was getting rather uncertain on her feet, tumbling from side to side, they drove in.
The landlord at first made many objections to having them, and said the house was already full; perhaps he thought they were not very grand folk. But at last, by dint of persuasive words, and promising him the egg which Mrs. Partlet had laid on the way, and also that he should keep the duck, who laid an egg every day, he consented to let them stay the night.
Then they had a meal served to them, and feasted and passed the time in rioting.
In the early dawn, before it grew light and every one was asleep, Partlet woke up Chanticleer, fetched the egg, pecked a hole in it, and between them they ate it all up, and threw the shells on to the hearth. Then they went to the needle, which was still asleep, seized it by the head and stuck it in the cushion of the landlord’s arm-chair; the pin they stuck in his towel, and then, without more ado, away they flew over the heath. The duck, who preferred to sleep in the open air and had stayed in the yard, heard them whizzing by, and bestirred herself. She found a stream, and swam away down it; it was a much quicker way to get on than being harnessed to a carriage.
A couple of hours later the landlord, who was the first to leave his pillow, got up and washed. When he took up the towel to dry himself, he scratched his face and made a long red line from ear to ear. Then he went to the kitchen to light his pipe, but when he stooped over the hearth the egg-shells flew into his eye.
“Everything goes to my head this morning,” he said angrily, as he dropped on to the cushion of his grandfather’s arm-chair. But he quickly bounded up again, and shouted, “Gracious me!” for the needle had run into him, and this time not in the head. He grew furious, and his suspicions immediately fell on the guests who had come in so late the night before. When he went to look for them, they were nowhere to be seen. Then he swore never to take such ragamuffins into his house again; for they ate a great deal, paid nothing, and played tricks, by way of thanks, into the bargain.