“That would suit me exactly,” answered the hen. “I am very fond of ripe fruit, and it is a long time since I have tasted any.” So the cock and hen set off together.
The way was long, and the day was hot, and before the two had reached the top of the hill they were both of them tired and out of breath. The mulberries lay thick on the ground, and the cock and the hen ran about hither and yon, pecking and eating—pecking and eating, until they could eat no more, and the sun was near setting.
“Oh! oh!” groaned the hen, “how weary I am. How in the world are we to get home again. My legs are so tired, I could not go another step if my life depended on it.”
“My dear,” said the cock, “I too am weary, but I see here a number of fallen twigs. If I could but weave them into a coach we might ride home in comfort.”
“That is a clever thought,” sighed the hen. “Make it by all means. There is nothing I like better than riding in a coach.”
The cock at once set to work, and by weaving sticks and grasses together he made a little coach with body, wheels, and shafts all complete.
The hen was delighted. She at once hopped into the coach, and seated herself. “Now, my dear Cock-a-lorum,” she cried, “nothing more is needed but for you to get between the shafts and step out briskly, and we will be at home in less than no time.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the cock sharply. “I have no idea of pulling the coach myself. My legs ache as well as yours, and if you wait for me to pull you home you may sit there till doomsday.”
“But how then are we to get home?” asked the hen, beginning to weep.
“I do not know,” answered the cock. “But what I do know is that I am not going to pull you.”