"O my soul!" said he, "these poor fowls are sadly imprisoned. I will let them go a little." So he opened the cage, and the birds scrambled out. One ran one way, and another another; but the Khoja contrived to keep up with the cock, which he drove before him with his stick, the poor bird waddling hither and thither, and fluttering from side to side with distress and indecision pitiable to behold.
On seeing this the Khoja began to reproach him. "You never thought it would come to this, my fine bird, did you?" said he. "And yet what a wiseacre you are! You know when it's day better than the sun himself, and can crow loud enough for all the world to hear your wisdom."
The poor cock made no reply, but waddled on with hoarse cries and flapping wings.
"You're a poor prophet!" said the Khoja. "You know that it is morning in the middle of the night: how is it you could not foresee that you were to be driven to market? Thus—and thus!" And turning him at every corner by which he would escape, the Khoja drove the distracted cock into the city.
Tale 49.—Hare-soup.
One day there came a man from the village who made the Khoja a present of a hare.
The Khoja brought him in, treating him with all honour and hospitality, and gave him some rich and excellent soup.
In a week's time the man called again; but the Khoja had forgotten him, and said, "Who are you?"
"I am the man who brought the hare," he replied. The Khoja entertained him as before, though the soup was not quite so rich.
After a few days came some men who desired to be guests to the Khoja.