A SPANISH TRADITION.
Once upon a time there was a comely hen who lived comfortably in a farm-yard, surrounded by her numerous family of chickens, noticeable among which was a lame and deformed one. But this was precisely the one which the mother loved most dearly; for that is always the way with mothers. The lame chicken, that had been hatched from a very diminutive egg, was, in fact, only half a chicken, and to look at him one might have supposed that the sword of Solomon had executed on his person the famous sentence pronounced on a certain occasion by that wise King. He had only one eye, one wing, and one leg; yet for all that he put on more airs than his father, who was the handsomest, the most valiant, and the stateliest rooster in all the farm-yards for twenty leagues around. The chicken thought himself the Phœnix of his race. If the other young roosters made sport of him, he thought it was through envy, and if the young hens did so, that it was because he took so little notice of them.
One day he said to his mother: "Mother, I have something to say to you. The country bores me. I have made up my mind to go to the court; I want to see the King and the Queen."
The poor mother trembled when she heard these words. "Son," she exclaimed, "who can have put such nonsense in your head? Your father has never left his native place, and he is the honor of his race. Where will you find a yard like this? Where wholesomer or more abundant food, a hen-house so sheltered and so near the station, or affection like that of your family?"
"Nego," said Little Scarecrow in Latin, for he prided himself upon his learning, "my brothers and sisters and my cousins are nothing but a set of ignoramuses."
"But, my son," responded his mother, "have you never looked at yourself in the glass? Don't you see that you have only one foot and one eye?"
"Since you take that tone," replied Little Scarecrow, "let me tell you that you ought to drop dead with shame to see me in such a condition. Pray who is to blame for it but yourself? But perhaps I may meet with some skilful surgeon," he added, with his comb as red as fire, "who will supply the members that I lack. So say no more, for I am going away."
When his mother saw that there was no way of dissuading him from his purpose, she spoke as follows:
"Hear at least, my son, the prudent counsels of an affectionate mother. Try to avoid passing by any church where there is an image of St. Peter; the saint has little liking for cocks, and much less for their crowing. Shun also certain men whom there are in the world called cooks. They are our mortal enemies, and they would wring the necks of us all, if they could, in the twinkling of an eye. And now go and ask your father for his blessing."
Little Scarecrow approached his father, bent his head to kiss his parent's foot, and asked him for his blessing. The venerable cock gave it to him with more dignity than tenderness, for, owing to the bad disposition of the chicken, his father had no love for him. His mother, however, was so greatly affected that she was obliged to wipe her eyes with a dry leaf.
Little Scarecrow started off at a trot after he had flapped his wing and crowed thrice by way of farewell. Presently he came to the edge of a Brook that was almost dry—for it was summer—whose slender current had been stopped on its way by some branches. The Brook, as soon as it saw the traveller, said to him:
"You see, friend, how weak I am. I can scarcely take a step, and I have not strength enough to push aside those troublesome branches that obstruct my way. Nor can I give a turn and avoid them, for that would fatigue me too greatly. You can easily take me out of this difficulty by removing them with your beak. In exchange, not only can you quench your thirst in my current, but you may count upon my services when the waters of heaven shall have restored my strength."
"I could, but I will not," responded the chicken. "Do I by chance look like the servant of a shallow and miserable Brook?"
"One of these days, when you least expect it, you will remember me," murmured the Brook in a fainting voice.
"All that was wanting was that you should give yourself the air of a great river," said Little Scarecrow, insolently. "Any one would suppose that you had drawn a prize in the lottery or that you were counting to a certainty on the waters of the deluge."
A little further on he met the Wind, who was lying stretched on the ground, almost lifeless.
"Dear Little Scarecrow," said the Wind to him, "in this world we all have need of one another. Approach and behold me. Do you see to what a condition the heat of Summer has reduced me—me who am so strong and so powerful; who raise up the waves, who lay low the fields, whose force nothing can resist? This sultry day has killed me. I fell asleep, intoxicated with the fragrance of the flowers that I was playing with, and here I am now completely exhausted. If you would only raise me a couple of inches from the ground and fan me with your wing, that would give me strength enough to fly, and to go to my cavern where my mother and my sisters, the Storms, are busy mending some old clouds which I tore to pieces. There they will give me some soup, and I shall gather new strength."
"Cavalier," responded the perverse chicken, "many a time you have diverted yourself with me, pushing me from behind, and spreading my tail out like a fan, for every one who saw me to laugh at me. No, friend, to every pig comes his St. Martin's day, and so good-by to you for the present, Sir Harlequin." So saying, he crowed thrice in a clear voice and strutted haughtily away.
In the middle of a field covered with stubble, to which the harvesters had set fire, a column of smoke was rising. Little Scarecrow drew near, and saw a tiny spark which was fast dying out among the ashes.
"Beloved Little Scarecrow," said the Spark, when it saw him, "you have come just in time to save my life. For want of nourishment, I am at the point of death. I don't know where my cousin, the Wind, who always helps me in these straits, can have hidden himself. Bring me a few straws to revive me."
"What have I to do with your affairs?" answered the chicken. "Die if you wish. For my part, I have no need of you."
"Who knows but you may yet have need of me," responded the Spark. "No one can tell what he may one day be brought to."
"Hello!" said the perverse animal. "So you are still haranguing. Take that, then." And so saying, he covered the Spark with ashes; after which he began to crow, according to his custom, as if he had just performed some great exploit.
Little Scarecrow arrived at the capital, and passing by a church, which he was told was St. Peter's, he stood still before the door, and there crowed himself hoarse, solely for the purpose of enraging the saint, and having the pleasure of disobeying his mother.
As he approached the palace, which he desired to enter to see the King and the Queen, the sentinel cried out to him, "Back!" He then went to the rear of the palace, and entering by a back door, saw a very large apartment where a great many people were coming in and going out. He asked who they were, and was told that they were his Majesty's cooks. Instead of running away, as his mother had warned him to do, he went in with crest and tail erect; but one of the scullions caught him on the instant and wrung his neck in the twinkling of an eye.
"Bring some water here and let us pluck this scarecrow," said the scullion.
"Water, my dear Doña Cristalina," cried the chicken; "please don't scald me! Mercy! Have compassion upon me!"
"Had you compassion upon me when I asked your help, perverse bird?" answered the Water, boiling with rage and flooding the chicken from head to foot, while the scullions left him without so much as a feather.
The cook then took Little Scarecrow and put him on the gridiron.
"Fire! brilliant Fire!" cried the unhappy bird, "you who are so powerful and so resplendent, take pity upon my situation, repress your ardor, quench your flames, and do not burn me."
"You impudent rogue!" responded the Fire, "how can you have the courage to appeal to me, after having stifled me, because you thought, as you said, that you would never need me? Come here and you shall see something fine."
And, in fact, not content with browning the chicken, the fire burned him until he was as black as a coal. When the cook saw the chicken in this condition he took him by the foot and threw him out of the window. Then the Wind took possession of him.
"Wind," cried Little Scarecrow, "my dear, my venerated Wind, you who rule over everything, and who obey no one, powerful among the powerful, have compassion upon me; leave me at rest on this heap."
"Leave you!" roared the Wind, seizing him in a gust and whirling him about in the air like a top. "Never!"
The Wind deposited Little Scarecrow on the top of a belfry. St. Peter extended his hand and fastened him firmly to it. From that time to this he has remained there, black, thin, and bare, beaten by the rain and pushed about by the Wind, whose sport he forever is. He is no longer called Little Scarecrow, but Weather-Cock; but there he is, expiating his errors and his sins, his disobedience, his pride, and his perversity.