cousins are nothing but rustics. My genius is stifling in
this hole; I wish to roam the world and seek my fortune."
“But, my son, have you never looked in the brook?”
resumed the poor hen. "Dont you know that you lack
an eye, a leg, and a wing? To make your fortune, you
need the eyes of a fox, the legs of a spider, and the wings
of a vulture. Once outside of these walls, you are lost."
“My good mother,” replied Coquerico, “when a hen
hatches a duck she is always frightened on seeing it run
to the water. You know me no better. It is my nature
to succeed by my wit and talent. I must have a public
capable of appreciating the charms of my person; my place
is not among inferior people."
"My son,” said the hen, seeing all her counsels useless—
my son, listen at least to your mother’s last words. If
you go to Rome, take care to avoid St. Peter’s Church;
the saint, it is said, dislikes cocks, especially when they
crow. Shun, moreover, certain personages called cooks
and scullions; you will know them by their paper caps,
their tucked-up sleeves, and the great knives which they
wear at their sides. They are licensed assassins, who
track our steps without pity and cut our throats without
giving us time to cry mercy. And now, my child,” she
added, raising her claw, "receive my blessing. May St.
James, the patron saint of pilgrims, protect thee!"