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.”