Rooster Puts the Foal to Bed
At the bottom of the hill there was a farm, and on the farm lived a rooster with the loudest voice for miles.
Rooster was very proud of it. Every evening he stuck his head into an empty milk pail and practised.
“Cock-a-doodle-DOO!”
The pail made it boom. BOOM-a-doodle-DOO! Rooster pulled his head out and shook his comb, very pleased.
“Best voice on the farm,” he said to the pail. The pail did not argue.
One night the moon was so round and bright that the duck pond looked like a dropped silver plate. The ducks were asleep. The pigs were asleep. The sheep were asleep in the top field. But in the big stall by the gate, somebody was wide awake.
That was Dot. Dot was a brand-new foal, and her legs were too long for her. They went this way and that, as if each one had its own idea. Dot wanted to see everything. She wanted to see the moon, and the silver pond, and the end of her own tail, which was always behind her when she turned to look.
Old Mare stood beside her. Old Mare was Dot’s mother, and she was so tired that her ears drooped.
“Dot will not settle,” said Old Mare. She said it softly. She was the only one on the farm who never raised her voice.
Rooster heard her over the fence. Rooster puffed up his feathers until he was round as a cushion.
“Leave it to me!” said Rooster.
“Do you know how to put a foal to sleep?” said Old Mare.
“Not yet,” said Rooster. “But a voice like mine can do anything. You lie down and rest. By morning, Dot will be fast asleep.”
Old Mare was much too tired to argue. She lay down in the straw.
First Rooster sang Dot a lullaby. He wanted it to be a big one, so he sang it into the milk pail.
“Hush-a-bye, baby! Cock-a-doodle-DOO!”
BOOM, went the pail.
Over the wall of the sty, a pig sat straight up.
“Is it morning?” said the pig.
“It’s a lullaby,” said Rooster.
“It’s a very loud one,” said the pig, and lay back down with a grunt.
Dot’s ears stood up like two little flags. She did a wobbly dance on her long legs.
“Again!” said Dot. “Do the boom again!”
Rooster scratched his comb. That was not supposed to happen.
“Leave it to me,” said Rooster, a little less loudly. “Counting sheep. That always works.”
He called up the hill. “Sheep! Down here, please! I need you for counting!”
The sheep were good neighbours. Down they came through the moonlight, twelve of them, white and woolly, and stood in a line along the fence where Dot could see.
“One,” said Rooster. “Two. Three.”
At the front of the line stood a small sheep with one black ear. As soon as Rooster counted the little sheep, the little sheep trotted round behind all the others and squeezed in at the far end, ready to be counted again. Rooster did not notice. Dot did.
“Twelve,” said Rooster. “Thirteen.”
Round went the sheep with the black ear.
“Twenty-one,” said Rooster. “Twenty-two.”
Round went the sheep with the black ear.
“Forty,” said Rooster, very croaky now. “Forty-one.” He stopped. “How many sheep are there?”
“Twelve,” said the sheep with the black ear. “But I like being counted.”
Dot laughed so hard that all four long legs folded at once, and she sat down in the straw with a bump.
“Forty-one!” said Dot. “Count them again!”
“Leave it to me,” said Rooster. It came out small and scratchy, because his throat was sore from all that counting. “A foal sleeps best after a good long march. I’ll tire her out.”
So Rooster marched up and down like a guard. Up to the water trough, chest out, tail high. Back to the milk pail, knees up, stamp, stamp.
Dot giggled. She marched too, inside the stall. Clop, wobble, clop, wobble.
Up went Rooster. Back went Rooster. Clop, wobble, went Dot, giggling all the way.
At last Rooster stopped. His feet were tired. His throat was sore. His tail feathers drooped nearly as low as Old Mare’s ears. He did not have a single boast left in him.
Leave it to me, thought Rooster. He was too tired to say it out loud.
He flapped over the stall door and came down in the straw beside Dot. He fluffed his feathers. He tucked his head under his wing. And from somewhere deep in his feathers came a tiny sound.
“Cluck,” said Rooster.
It was very small. It was the first quiet sound Rooster had made in his whole life, and it surprised him so much that he did it again, just to check.
“Cluck.”
Dot stopped giggling. She looked at the round, tucked-in Rooster. Then she folded her long legs, one, two, three, four. She tucked her nose down into the straw.
“Cluck,” said Dot, very small.
Her eyes closed. Her ears went soft. Dot was asleep.
Old Mare opened one eye. She looked at her foal, fast asleep, and at the rooster beside her.
“It takes a loud voice to wake a farm,” said Old Mare, “and a soft one to put a foal to sleep.”
Rooster did not answer. He was much too sleepy. So Old Mare reached her long nose over and pushed a little more straw around the two of them, to keep them warm.
Over the sty wall, the pig peeped in and did not say a word. Up on the hill, the sheep with the black ear lay down with the others and stayed put.
By the stall door the milk pail sat empty, with a small round moon shining in the bottom of it. The duck pond lay like a dropped silver plate. And in the warm straw, the mare and the foal and the rooster slept, all three of them, close together.
Nobody on the whole farm made a sound all night long. Not even Rooster.