The rooster woke up on a fine summer morning and crowed, marvelling at his strong, loud voice. He strutted out of the hen house, stretched his fine yellow scaley legs, and let loose another crow. In all obedience, the hens rushed out and began pecking and clawing at the dirt around them.

The rooster smiled to himself and strutted (he never walked, walking was below his level) to his own private feeding ground. Here the grains were extra tasty and there always seemed to be a ready supply of them. As he strutted around, a few hens came to swoon at his feet. He puffed up his roosterly chest and crowed deafeningly. His marvellous tail feathers rivalled the jewel green of the sea, and the fiery red of the sunset. His beautiful chest feathers shone like bronze armour. His bright red comb stood proudly atop his noble head, and best of all, his beak! What a fine beak he had, yellow as fresh butter, and shaped like an icecream cone, curved in all the right places. He was a wonderful specimen, with his intelligent black eyes, and the witty way he had of cocking his head to one side.

All the hens and baby chicks in the farm looked up to him. He was King of Roosters, with his perfectly shaped feathers and strong muscles.

Which is probably the reason why he was not worried when another rooster came to challenge him to a fight for the possession of the chickenyard.

The other rooster was young and weak. He was no match for the King of Roosters. The hens watched in awe as the two roosters battled, using their spurs. Feathers were being thrown around, and blurred the audience's vision.

When the dust had cleared, the young chicken drooped away, half-plucked, his remaining feathers loosely blowing in the gentle breeze.

Meanwhile, the King of Roosters, proud of his own strength and speed, had not had a feather on his body touched. He threw back his head and crowed triumphantly, while his hens fussed over him. So involved was he in lapping up the attention, that he was in no way prepared for when the young rooster launched himself at him, plucking out the king's beautiful tail feathers.

The young rooster was (for all his effort) kicked several times very hard in the beak. He ran away into the midmorning traffic, sulking.

Back at the farm, the hens had gathered into tight clutches, clucking away and laughing at the once-perfect rooster.

Now that his tail feathers had been viciously yanked off, he resembled a hen! He was so embarrassed, he flew away, never to be seen again.

As for his tail feathers, the farmer's wife picked them up, and made them into a fan. She sold the fan, and with the money, bought a nice, new, humble rooster.