'
"Once upon a time--it was the village fair week, when, as you know,
every one eats and drinks as much as he possibly can, and consequently a
great many animals are killed,--the farmer's cook came into the
fowlyard, and after carefully looking over all the chickens, remarked
that seven of them would be twisting merrily on the spit next morning.
On hearing this, all the fowls were plunged into the deepest despair,
for no one felt sure that he would not be of the seven, and no one could
guess how the victims would be chosen. Two young cockerels, in their
deep perplexity, at last went to the yard-dog, Flaps by name, who was a
very great friend of theirs, and to him they cackled out their woes.
"'Why do you stop here?' asked Flaps. 'If you had any pluck at all you
would run away.'
"'Ah! Perhaps so--but who has enough courage for such a desperate step?'
sighed the young cockerels. 'Why, you yourself are no more courageous
than we, else why do you stop here chained up all day, and allow those
tiresome children to come and tease you?'
"'Well,' replied the dog, 'I earn a good livelihood by putting up with
these small discomforts, and besides that, _I_ am not going to be set
twisting on a spit.
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