Читать книгу Gobble-Up Stories - Oscar Mandel - Страница 6

THE COCK WHO MADE THE SUN RISE

Every day before dawn, the rooster Kukkurrik uttered a mighty volley of crows, watched the sun come up, and said to himself, “I’ve done it again.” For he believed that his crowing made the sun rise. Once, however, it happened that his chum, the chiffchaff, risen from his twigs before his usual time, overheard Kukkurrik and urged him to explain what he meant by “I’ve done it again.” At first Kukkurrik was reluctant, for he felt that getting the sun to rise was his own private affair. But as he was proud of his mission in life, his friend finally wormed the truth out of him. However, instead of being impressed, the chiffchaff went into gales of laughter.

“You superstitious henpecker, you arrogant eggnog—you bring out the sun? Ha, ha, ha, go on and prove it to me.”

“I don’t know why I should bother,” said Kukkurrik coldly, “but even a fool like you must have heard of logic.”

“Logic?”

“Yes, logic. Every morning I crow, and every morning as soon as I have finished crowing, the sun rises. Cause and effect. Logic. Ergum probatus est.”

“It so happens,” answered the chiffchaff, “that the sun comes out in the morning because a god, whose name if you please is Fibbus, takes it out for a ride. Did you say logic? I drank FACTS with my mother’s milk.” And there the quarrel ended, because the sweet voice of his favorite hen was calling Kukkurrik to business.

One winter night, however, Kukkurrik and that same hen (her name was Mistress Pertelote) had a falling out, and Kukkurrik left her roost in a huff. It was long past midnight and very frosty, and poor Kukkurrik caught a ferocious cold. He could feel the fever gripping his lungs, his head was in a whirl, he coughed grit and gravel, he cursed Mistress Pertelote, and, as the time to crow came on, he found that he couldn’t bring out so much as a semiquaver. “I don’t care, it’ll be dark for once,” he thought, and staggered up his loft, where he fell into a deep sleep.

Hours later, the chiffchaff woke him up. It was a bright day. “Friend Kukkurrik,” he sang, “wake up, it’s me, your best friend, you’ve been furiously sick, your wives tell me you couldn’t crow, and yet here’s the blissful sun blushing all over the world, and to add insult to infamy, there’s not a cloud to be seen from poop to stern.”

“What’s that?” mumbled Kukkurrik.

“You didn’t crow, and the sun is up,” the chiffchaff shouted into his ear. “Pray explicate.” He thought the hour of victory had struck and the Fibbus hypothesis was confirmed forever. But not at all!

“I guess,” Kukkurrik brought out in a hoarse whisper, “I crowed so long yesterday that it carried for two days.”

“I’ll be damned,” said the chiffchaff.

“In fact,” wheezed the rooster, “I wouldn’t be surprised if I lasted the sun a week.” And he left the chiffchaff agape at the compelling power of logic.