Rufus and the Pie-Tin Crown

Rufus the rooster had the loudest voice at the fair. He crowed so loud that the judge’s hat blew off. He crowed so loud that the pigs sat down in surprise. He crowed so loud that the tea in the tea tent went slosh.

So Rufus won the Loudest Voice prize.

The prize was a crown. It was cut from an old pie tin, and it still had a bit of crust stuck to the back. Rufus thought it was the finest crown in the whole world.

It was also much too big. Every time Rufus nodded, it went clink and slid right down over his eyes.

“Never mind,” said Rufus. “A rooster with a crown does not need to see. He only needs to be loud.”

By the time the fair was over, the moon was up and the stars were out. Lamps shone in farmhouse windows all along the hills.

“I must get home,” said Rufus. “I must be on top of the henhouse before morning, to crow Hill Farm awake. Who else will do it?”

Nobody, that was who. The cows would not get up. The farmer would not get up. And Hattie would be waiting for him. Hattie was a brown hen who never minded waiting. She always kept a lamp in the henhouse window until Rufus came home.

“I know the way!” said Rufus. He nodded very firmly.

Clink. Down came the crown, right over his eyes.

Off he marched. Squelch went the puddle. Round went the haystack. Bonk went the crown on something hard.

The crown bounced up, and Rufus looked. It was the crooked signpost at the crossroads. One striped sock hung from the signpost’s arm, all on its own.

“Hello, sock,” said Rufus. “Lovely evening.”

Along came a goose, waddling home from the fair with a blue ribbon for Biggest Splash.

“Rufus!” said the goose, very loudly, the way geese do. “Shall I show you the way? Hill Farm is just up—”

“I know the way!” said Rufus. He nodded very firmly.

Clink. Down came the crown.

Off he marched. Squelch went the puddle. Round went the haystack. Bonk went the crown on the signpost.

The crown bounced up. There was the sock.

“Hello, sock,” said Rufus. “Lovely evening.”

A cow was leaning over the gate by the crossroads, chewing slowly. The moon was far too bright for sleeping.

“Evening, Rufus,” said the cow, and chewed. “You’ve been round once already. Shall I walk you home?”

“I know the way!” said Rufus. He nodded very firmly.

Clink. Down came the crown.

Off he marched. Squelch went the puddle. Round went the haystack. Bonk went the crown on the signpost.

The crown bounced up. There was the sock.

“Hello, sock,” said Rufus. “Lovely evening.”

But the sock was wiggling, because Little Goat was nibbling the toe of it.

Little Goat never said much. Little Goat nibbled things. Anything that stuck out, Little Goat nibbled: a coat button, a bit of rope, the end of the farmer’s pencil.

Little Goat looked at Rufus. Little Goat looked at the crown. The crown stuck out.

Little Goat said nothing at all. Nibble, nibble, crunch. Off came the front corner of the crown. And then, because it was there, off came the crust.

Rufus nodded. The crown stayed put. He nodded again, very firmly. It still stayed put.

He could see!

And there, at the top of the little lane, was Hill Farm. There was the barn, and the pond, and the henhouse. In the henhouse window was a lamp, shining yellow. Hattie had waited up.

All this time, Rufus had been marching round and round, right next to home.

“Oh,” said Rufus. He looked at his muddy feet. He looked at the sock. Then he looked at Little Goat, and he said something he had never said before.

“Little Goat, which is the quickest way across the yard?”

Little Goat thought about it. “Gate,” said Little Goat.

So they went in through the gate and across the yard. There was Hattie at the henhouse door, holding up her lamp.

“There you are,” said Hattie. “Did you win?”

“I did,” said Rufus. “But I couldn’t see where I was going, and I wouldn’t ask, and I said hello to the same sock three times. Then Little Goat ate my crown. Some of it.”

Hattie looked at the crown with the bite out of it.

“It fits better now,” said Hattie. “And even the cleverest bird is allowed to ask the way.”

“Thank you, Little Goat,” said Rufus. “You can have the crust.”

Little Goat had already had the crust.

“I missed you, Hattie,” said Rufus.

“I missed you too,” said Hattie. “Now up you go.”

The stars were going pale. Morning was nearly here.

Rufus flapped up onto the henhouse roof. He stood up tall. He took the biggest breath of his whole life.

“Cock-a-doodle…” said Rufus.

And he fell fast asleep, right there, before the doo.

Hattie flapped up beside him. She tucked her warm wing over him, crown and all.

So that morning nobody crowed, and nobody woke. The cows slept late in the barn. The goose slept late by the pond, with the blue ribbon tucked under one wing. Little Goat slept late by the gate. The farmer slept late, with one boot still on.

And up on the henhouse roof, under Hattie’s wing, Rufus slept latest of all. The doo could wait until tomorrow.