his mother’s eye, nor did he trouble himself any more about
his father, who bristled his plumage and seemed about
to call him back. Without caring for those whom he left
behind, he glided through the half-open door and, once
outside, flapped his only wing and crowed three times, to
celebrate his freedom—** Cock-a-doodle-doo!”’
As he half flew, half hopped over the fields, he came to the
bed of a brook which had been dried up by the sun. In
the middle of the sands, however, still trickled a tiny thread
of water, so small that 1t was choked by a couple of dead
leaves that had fallen into it.
“My friend,” exclaimed the streamlet at the sight of our
traveler—‘‘ my friend, you see my weakness; I have not even
the strength to carry away these leaves which obstruct my
passage, much less to make a circuit, so completely am I
exhausted. With a stroke of your beak you can restore
me to life. Jam not an ingrate; if you oblige me, you may
count on my gratitude the first ramy day, when the water
from heaven shall have restored my strength."
“You are jesting,”’ said Coquerico. "Do I look like one
whose business it 1s to sweep the brooks? Apply to those
of your own sort.” And with his sound leg, he leaped
across the streamlet.
“You will remember me when you least expect it,”
murmured the brook, but with so feeble a voice that it was