“Why do you quiver and quake, Miss Aspen?”
“Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the ale-cask and drowned himself,” said the aspen, with a trembling voice; “Dame Partlet sits in the ingle sighing and sobbing; the handquern grinds and groans; the chair creaks and cracks; the door slams and bangs; the stove steams and smokes, and the ax rives and rends. That’s why I quiver and quake.”
“Well, if we can do naught else, we will pluck off all our feathers,” said the birds; and with that they fell a-pilling and plucking themselves till the room was full of feathers.
This the master stood by and saw; and, when the feathers flew about like fun, he asked the birds:
“Why do you pluck off all your feathers, you birds?”
“Oh, Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the ale-cask and drowned himself,” twittered out the birds; “Dame Partlet sits sighing and sobbing in the ingle; the handquern grinds and groans; the chair creaks and cracks; the door slams and bangs; the stove smokes and steams; the ax rives and rends, and the aspen quivers and quakes. That’s why we are pilling and plucking all our feathers off.”
“Well, if I can do nothing else, I can tear the brooms asunder,” said the man; and with that he fell tearing and tossing the brooms till the birch-twigs flew about east and west.
The goody stood cooking porridge for supper, and saw all this.
“Why, man!” she called out, “what are you tearing the brooms to bits for?”
“Oh,” said the man, “Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the ale-vat and drowned himself; Dame Partlet sits sighing and sobbing in the ingle; the handquern grinds and groans; the chair cracks and creaks; the door slams and bangs; the stove smokes and steams; the ax rives and rends; the aspen quivers and quakes; the birds are pilling and plucking all their feathers off, and that’s why I am tearing the besoms to bits.”