The Cat, the Rooster and the Fox

Morning smelled of millet and warm woodsmoke. In a little cottage under a pine tree the Cat was cooking porridge, while the Rooster in red boots swept the doorstep with his feathery tail.

“Cock-a-doodle-doo, I do love order!” the Rooster sang. “A grain here, a little feather there, and the sun — onto the window!”

The Cat took a silver spoon that shone like a button of moonlight and said:

“I am off to fetch firewood. And you, Rooster, do not open the door. He who sings sweetly does not always bring a pie.”

The Rooster nodded three whole times. And the spoon clinked against the bowl: ting-a-ling, don’t open, sit quietly, don’t disappear!

The Cat went off into the forest. His tail had barely flashed among the ferns when a Fox appeared beneath the window. Red, fluffy, with a little bag in which something kept bouncing.

“Rooster, Rooster, golden comb, peep out for just a minute! I have brought a pea that counts to three all by itself.”

“To three?” The Rooster hopped up. “I can do that too! One, two, cluck!”

The spoon in the bowl clinked softly: ting-a-ling, don’t open, sit quietly, don’t disappear.

But the Rooster was trusting and curious. He opened the door just a feather’s width. The Fox — whisk! — snatched him up and carried him off along the path.

“Ca-a-at!” cried the Rooster. “The Fox is carrying me past the dark forests, past the wet bridges, to a cottage with no porridge!”

The Cat heard the cry, dropped the firewood and ran. After him hopped the silver spoon: ting-a-ling over the pebbles, ting-a-ling over the little roots.

In a clearing sat a Hedgehog in a waistcoat of moss.

“Have you seen a fox with a rooster?” asked the Cat.

“I have,” snorted the Hedgehog. “She was in such a hurry that she dropped three tricks and one burr. Run towards the ringing.”

The Cat ran on. By a brook a little Frog was tapping her paw on a pine cone.

“I cannot sing,” she said, “but I can drum an alarm: knock-knock, save your friend, my dear Cat!”

And again the spoon took up the song: ting-a-ling, don’t disappear, your friend will hear — go to the rescue!

The Fox had already sat the Rooster down in her cottage and set an empty plate before him.

“Sing me a song,” she asked, “and I will think about whether to eat porridge without any porridge.”

The Rooster trembled, but through a crack he saw a silver gleam. The Cat had laid the spoon by the door.

“I will sing,” said the Rooster in a tiny voice, “only I need a bell for the chorus.”

The Fox frowned:

“A bell? All I have is a frying pan, two plum stones and an old samovar that says ‘puff’ instead of ‘good morning’.”

“That is exactly it!” called the Cat from behind the door, and he played on the spoon, the frying pan and the samovar so merrily that the cottage began to dance: puff-ting, puff-ting!

The Fox spun round, tripped over her own bag, and the Rooster — leap! — jumped out onto the Cat’s back.

They went home slowly. The Rooster was silent, only holding tight to the Cat’s neck.

In the cottage the porridge was still warm. The Cat poured it into two bowls and laid the silver spoon between them, like a little moon on the table.

“Tomorrow I won’t open the door,” said the Rooster. “Except for you. And for porridge. Porridge is allowed.”

The Cat purred:

“Porridge is allowed.”

Outside the window the Fox sneezed from the burr and went off to count her lost tricks. And in the cottage the spoon clinked softly: ting-a-ling, don’t disappear, your friend will hear — go to the rescue.