Little Chicken Tales

Little Red Rooster was running frantically about under the big maple trees in the front yard. He looked up into the trees, seemed about to leap into flight. Decided against it. Not yet. But longing for the heights.

Little Grey Hen and Pullet were already up there on a high limb of the tree in the center of the group. That Fallen Hero had gone up too. He crouched on a limb far out, almost overhanging the road. He had made it by using the old Chrysler as a launching pad, but Little Grey Hen and Pullet had lifted with ease onto the lower branches, then moved on higher. But Little Red Rooster was all alone on the ground.

Until now, he had slept in the garage, in the area above the antique car, hidden from sight. All alone. Now, for some reason hidden from Barney, he did not want to go to his accustomed place in the loft of the garage. Had some night prowler threatened him there? Or was it just the flocking instinct? The need to be with the other chickens? Just to be there with them? Even if it meant a flight into the maple trees where he had never been before. In any case, sitting alone in the garage had become a thing of the past. No more of it.

Now, for ten minutes or more, Little Red Rooster ran back and forth, looking up. He crouched for the leap, seemed to be going to do it. Then he backed out. Never before had he tried to fly up into the trees. Anxiously, he measured the distance against his own strength. And his fear? Then he leaped onto the deck of the old faded maroon Chrysler; he flapped his wings wildly. He crowed. "I did it! Made the first leap." He looked up into the tree again. Leaped again, landed on the car's roof. Flapped his wings wildly again. Crowed proudly. And looked up again. Gathering strength and courage, he became airborne and made it to a low hanging limb, grasped it with his toes, teetered back and forth. Held on. Flapped his wings more wildly than ever. Crowed more victoriously than ever. "Hey. Look at me. I made it!" Never before was a little cock more proud of himself than Little Red Rooster was now. Then came the fall.

For he tried now to move to another branch that looked better, to him. He misjudged the distance. His feet slipped. Or he was hesitant at the last moment. Anyway, he tumbled ignominiously to the ground. Disgrace. Shame. What now? He looked all about him. He looked toward the porch where Barney's friend Joe was watching. He looked at Taffy who was ignoring him. He looked about for Max who was crouching under the car. Then he turned and fled toward the back yard. Toward the garage where a solid area in the loft over the antique car awaited him. But in a moment he came running again to the front yard. He would not admit defeat. Fallen? Yes. Defeated? No.

Now he remembered exactly how it was done, and he followed the known route to the heights again. Onto the deck lid. Flap wings. Crow. Onto the roof. Flap wings. Crow again! Onto the low limb of the maple tree. Flap wings triumphantly. Crow victoriously!

The conquest of fear had come with his first ascent. The victory over shame had come with the second. Now he settled down to sleep. Up there, where nothing could touch him. Up there with the other little chickens. Up there where he could look down on Barand Joe and Taffy and Max. Up there.

Oh, glorious ascent. Oh proud victory. Oh wonderful flight to the heights.

As the first sign of the dawning of a new day streaked the Eastern sky, Little Red Rooster stood on his limb of the giant maple tree. He flapped his wings, threw his head back, and greeted the world with his announcement that he was its undoubted monarch. Little Grey Hen and Pullet flew down to the ground. The Fallen Angel flew down to the ground. Little Red Rooster remained on his tree limb, crowing. And when he thought he had crowed enough to bring the sun up he too flew down to the ground. Then all four Little Chickens ran to the back yard where Barney had spread scratch feed on a board.

Barney poured a cup of coffee. He turned on the stove under his oats. He looked in his clothes closet for a clean shirt to wear to church. The sun was rising steadily into the sky. But not drawn by the winged horses of the gods. Lifted, instead, by the loud triumphant, incessant crowing of Little Red Rooster.

"All praise to Him Who made the sun and the earth and all creatures great and small, and this herald of the dawn to sing a song that never grows stale but welcomes each new day with joy and hope."