THE DEATH OF CHANTICLEER

Once upon a time, a Cock and a Hen went out into the field to scratch and scrape for food. Suddenly, Chanticleer found a hop burr, and Partlet found a barleycorn. They decided to make malt and brew Yule ale.

"Oh! I pluck barley, I malt malt, I brew ale, and the ale is good," clucked Dame Partlet.

"Is the wort strong enough?" crowed Chanticleer. As he crowed, he flew up onto the edge of the cask and tried to have a taste. But just as he bent over to drink a drop, he flapped his wings and fell head over heels into the cask. He drowned.

When Dame Partlet saw this, she lost her wits. She flew up into the chimney corner and started screaming, "Harm in the house! Harm in the house!" She screamed without stopping.

"What ails you, Dame Partlet, that you sit there sobbing and sighing?" asked the Handquern.

"Why shouldn't I?" said Dame Partlet. "Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the cask and drowned himself. He lies dead. That's why I sigh and sob."

"Well, if I can do nothing else, I will grind and groan," said the Handquern, and it began grinding as fast as it could.

When the Chair heard that, it said, "What ails you, Handquern, that you grind and groan so fast and often?"

"Why not?" said the Handquern. "Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the cask and drowned himself, and Dame Partlet sits in the ingle, sighing and sobbing. That's why I grind and groan."

"If I can do nothing else, I will crack," said the Chair, and it started creaking and cracking.

When the Door heard that, it said, "What's the matter? Why do you creak and crack so, Mr. Chair?"

"Why not?" said the Chair. "Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the cask and drowned himself; Dame Partlet sits in the ingle, sighing and sobbing; and the Handquern grinds and groans. That's why I creak and crackle, croak and crack."

"Well," said the Door, "if I can do nothing else, I can rattle and bang, whistle and slam." And it began opening and shutting, banging and slamming so loudly that it deafened everyone.

All this the Stove heard, and it opened its mouth and called out, "Door! Door! Why all this slamming and banging?"

"Why not?" said the Door. "Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the cask and drowned himself; Dame Partlet sits in the ingle, sighing and sobbing; the Handquern grinds and groans; and the Chair creaks and cracks. That's why I bang and slam."

"Well," said the Stove, "if I can do nothing else, I can smoulder and smoke." And it began smoking and steaming until the room was full of clouds.

The Axe saw this as it stood outside, peeping through the window with its handle. "What's all this smoke about, Mrs. Stove?" said the Axe in a sharp voice.

"Why not?" said the Stove. "Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the cask and drowned himself; Dame Partlet sits in the ingle, sighing and sobbing; the Handquern grinds and groans; the Chair creaks and cracks; and the Door bangs and slams. That's why I smoke and steam."

"Well, if I can do nothing else, I can rive and rend," said the Axe, and it began riving and rending everything around.

The Aspen tree stood by and saw this. "Why do you rive and rend everything so, Mr. Axe?" said the Aspen.

"Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the ale cask and drowned himself," said the Axe. "Dame Partlet sits in the ingle, sighing and sobbing; the Handquern grinds and groans; the Chair creaks and cracks; the Door slams and bangs; and the Stove smokes and steams. That's why I rive and rend all about."

"Well, if I can do nothing else," said the Aspen, "I can quiver and quake in all my leaves." And it began trembling all over.

The Birds saw this and twittered, "Why do you quiver and quake, Miss Aspen?"

"Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the ale cask and drowned himself," said the Aspen with a trembling voice. "Dame Partlet sits in the ingle, sighing and sobbing; the Handquern grinds and groans; the Chair creaks and cracks; the Door slams and bangs; the Stove steams and smokes; and the Axe rives and rends. That's why I quiver and quake."

"Well, if we can do nothing else, we will pluck off all our feathers," said the Birds. And they began plucking themselves until the room was full of feathers.

The Master stood by and saw this. When the feathers flew about like crazy, he asked the Birds, "Why do you pluck off all your feathers, you Birds?"

"Oh! Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the ale cask and drowned himself," twittered the Birds. "Dame Partlet sits sighing and sobbing in the ingle; the Handquern grinds and groans; the Chair creaks and cracks; the Door slams and bangs; the Stove smokes and steams; the Axe rives and rends; and the Aspen quivers and quakes. That's why we are plucking all our feathers off."

"Well, if I can do nothing else, I can tear the brooms apart," said the man. And he began tearing and tossing the brooms until the birch twigs flew about everywhere.

The goodwife stood cooking porridge for supper and saw all this. "Why, man!" she called out. "What are you tearing the brooms to bits for?"

"Oh!" said the man. "Goodman Chanticleer has fallen into the ale vat and drowned himself; Dame Partlet sits sighing and sobbing in the ingle; the Handquern grinds and groans; the Chair cracks and creaks; the Door slams and bangs; the Stove smokes and steams; the Axe rives and rends; the Aspen quivers and quakes; the Birds are plucking all their feathers off. That's why I am tearing the brooms to bits."

"So, so!" said the goodwife.

"Then I'll dash the porridge over all the walls." And she did. She took one spoonful after another and dashed it against the walls, so that no one could see what the walls were made of for all the porridge.

That was how they drank the burial ale after Goodman Chanticleer, who fell into the brewing vat and drowned. And if you don't believe it, you may go there and have a taste of both the ale and the porridge.