once there were two cocks, one on a dunghill and one on the roof, both of them conceited; but which of the two did the most? tell us what you think - we'll keep our own opinion, anyway.
the chicken yard was separated by a board fence from another yard, where there lay a manure heap, and on this grew a great cucumber, which was fully aware of being a forcing - bed plant.
"that's a privilege of birth," said the cucumber to herself. "not everyone can be born a cucumber; there must be other living things, too. the fowls, the ducks, and the cattle in the next yard are creatures, too, i suppose. i now look up to the farmyard cock on the fence. he certainly is much more important than the weathercock way up there, who can't even creak, much less crow, who has no hens or chickens, who thinks only about himself and perspires rust. no, the farmyard cock - he's a real cock! his walk is like a dance, to hear him crow is like music, and whenever he comes around people can hear what a trumpeter he is! if he would only come over here! even if he should eat me up, stalk and all, it would be a happy death!" said the cucumber.
that night the weather turned very bad. the hens and chickens and even the cock himself sought shelter. the wind blew down the fence between the two yards with a terrific crash; tiles fell from the roof, but the weathercock sat firm. he didn't even turn around, because he couldn't. although he was young and just cast he was very steady and sedate. he had been "born old," and wasn't a bit like the sparrows and swallows that fly through the vault of heaven. he despised them; "ordinary piping birds of no importance!" he called them. he admitted that the pigeons were big and glossy, and gleamed like mother-of-pearl, and almost looked like some kind of weathercock, but then they were fat and stupid, and all they could think of was stuff themselves with food.
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