“Crow again, Trumpet.”
The roof jarred.
“It does not disturb them, then?”
“Didn’t you hear ’em ask for it?”
“How is it, that your sick family like this crowing?” said I. “The cock is a glorious cock, with a glorious voice, but not exactly the sort of thing for a sick chamber, one would suppose. Do they really like it?”
“Don’t you like it? Don’t it do you good? Ain’t it inspiring? Don’t it impart pluck? give stuff against despair?”
“All true,” said I, removing my hat with profound humility before the brave spirit disguised in the base coat.
“But then,” said I, still with some misgivings, “so loud, so wonderfully clamorous a crow, methinks might be amiss to invalids, and retard their convalescence.”
“Crow your best now, Trumpet!”
I leaped from my chair. The cock frightened me, like some overpowering angel in the Apocalypse. He seemed crowing over the fall of wicked Babylon, or crowing over the triumph of righteous Joshua in the vale of Askelon. When I regained my composure somewhat, an inquisitive thought occurred to me. I resolved to gratify it.