"Since you take that tone," replied Little Scarecrow, "let me tell you that you ought to drop dead with shame to see me in such a condition. Pray who is to blame for it but yourself? But perhaps I may meet with some skilful surgeon," he added, with his comb as red as fire, "who will supply the members that I lack. So say no more, for I am going away."
When his mother saw that there was no way of dissuading him from his purpose, she spoke as follows:
"Hear at least, my son, the prudent counsels of an affectionate mother. Try to avoid passing by any church where there is an image of St. Peter; the saint has little liking for cocks, and much less for their crowing. Shun also certain men whom there are in the world called cooks. They are our mortal enemies, and they would wring the necks of us all, if they could, in the twinkling of an eye. And now go and ask your father for his blessing."
Little Scarecrow approached his father, bent his head to kiss his parent's foot, and asked him for his blessing. The venerable cock gave it to him with more dignity than tenderness, for, owing to the bad disposition of the chicken, his father had no love for him. His mother, however, was so greatly affected that she was obliged to wipe her eyes with a dry leaf.
Little Scarecrow started off at a trot after he had flapped his wing and crowed thrice by way of farewell. Presently he came to the edge of a Brook that was almost dry—for it was summer—whose slender current had been stopped on its way by some branches. The Brook, as soon as it saw the traveller, said to him:
"You see, friend, how weak I am. I can scarcely take a step, and I have not strength enough to push aside those troublesome branches that obstruct my way. Nor can I give a turn and avoid them, for that would fatigue me too greatly. You can easily take me out of this difficulty by removing them with your beak. In exchange, not only can you quench your thirst in my current, but you may count upon my services when the waters of heaven shall have restored my strength."
"I could, but I will not," responded the chicken. "Do I by chance look like the servant of a shallow and miserable Brook?"
"One of these days, when you least expect it, you will remember me," murmured the Brook in a fainting voice.
"All that was wanting was that you should give yourself the air of a great river," said Little Scarecrow, insolently. "Any one would suppose that you had drawn a prize in the lottery or that you were counting to a certainty on the waters of the deluge."
A little further on he met the Wind, who was lying stretched on the ground, almost lifeless.