Original
Medio Pollito hatches with one leg, one wing, one eye, and half a beak, so his mother calls him half a chick. Headstrong and rude, he stumps off to Madrid to see the king. On the way a weed-choked stream, a dying fire, and the wind tangled in a chestnut tree all beg him for help.
Once upon a time there was a handsome black Spanish hen who had a large brood of chicks. They were all fine, plump little birds, all except the youngest, who was another matter altogether. In fact, he was such an odd-looking creature that when he first pecked his way out of the shell, his mother could hardly believe her eyes. He looked nothing like the twelve soft, fluffy chicks nestled under her wings.
This one looked exactly as if he had been cut in two. He had only one leg, one wing, and one eye, and he had half a head and half a beak. His mother shook her head sadly as she looked at him.
“My youngest is only half a chick,” she said. “He can never grow up into a tall, handsome rooster like his brothers. They will go out into the world and rule over barnyards of their own, but this poor little fellow will always have to stay at home with his mother.”
And she called him Medio Pollito, which is Spanish for half-chick.
He looked odd and helpless, but his mother soon found that he had no wish at all to stay under her wing. Medio Pollito was as unlike his brothers and sisters in character as he was in looks. They were good, obedient chickens, and whenever the old hen clucked for them, they peeped and ran back to her side. Medio Pollito, though, had a wandering spirit in spite of his one leg. When his mother called him back to the coop, he pretended he couldn’t hear her, because he had only one ear.
When she took the whole family out for a walk in the fields, he would hop off by himself and hide in the corn. His brothers and sisters spent many anxious minutes looking for him, while their mother ran back and forth, cackling with fright.
As he grew older, he became more and more headstrong and disobedient. He was often very rude to his mother, and he was bad-tempered and unpleasant with the other chickens.
One day he came back from an unusually long ramble in the fields. He strutted up to his mother with the funny little hop and kick that was his way of walking, cocked his one eye at her very boldly, and said, “Mother, I’m tired of this life in a dull farmyard, with nothing to look at but a dreary cornfield. I am off to Madrid to see the king.”
“To Madrid, Medio Pollito!” cried his mother. “Why, you silly chick, that would be a long journey for a grown rooster, and a poor little thing like you would be worn out before you’d gone halfway. No, no, stay at home with your mother, and someday, when you’re bigger, we’ll take a little trip together.”
But Medio Pollito had made up his mind. He would not listen to his mother’s advice, or to the pleading and begging of his brothers and sisters.
“What’s the use of all of us crowding each other in this cramped little place?” he said. “When I have a fine courtyard of my own at the king’s palace, I may ask a few of you to come and pay me a short visit.”
And barely stopping to say goodbye to his family, off he stumped down the road that led to Madrid.
“Be sure you’re kind and polite to everyone you meet!” his mother called, running after him. But he was in such a hurry to be gone that he didn’t stop to answer her, or even to look back.
Later that day, as he was taking a shortcut across a field, he came to a stream. It was so choked and overgrown with weeds and water plants that its water could not flow freely.
“Oh, Medio Pollito,” the stream cried, as the half-chick hopped along its bank, “please come and help me by clearing away these weeds.”
“Help you, indeed!” said Medio Pollito, tossing his head and shaking the few feathers in his tail. “Do you think I have nothing better to do than waste my time on such trifles? Help yourself, and don’t bother busy travelers. I am off to Madrid to see the king.”
Hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, away stumped Medio Pollito.
A little farther on, he came to a fire that some travelers had left in the woods. It had burned very low and would soon go out.
“Oh, Medio Pollito,” cried the fire in a weak, flickering voice as the half-chick came near, “in a few minutes I’ll go out altogether, unless you put some sticks and dry leaves on me. Please help me, or I will die!”
“Help you, indeed!” answered Medio Pollito. “I have other things to do. Gather sticks for yourself, and don’t bother me. I am off to Madrid to see the king.”
Hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, away stumped Medio Pollito.
The next morning, as he was getting close to Madrid, he passed a big chestnut tree. The wind had gotten caught and tangled in its branches.
“Oh, Medio Pollito,” called the wind, “do hop up here and help me get free of these branches. I can’t get away, and it’s so uncomfortable.”
“It’s your own fault for going there,” answered Medio Pollito. “I can’t waste my whole morning stopping here to help you. Just shake yourself loose, and don’t hold me up. I am off to Madrid to see the king.”
Hoppity-kick, hoppity-kick, away stumped Medio Pollito, very pleased with himself, for now he could see the towers and roofs of Madrid.
When he came into the city, he saw before him a great, splendid building with soldiers standing in front of the gates. He knew this must be the king’s palace, and he decided to hop up to the front gate and wait there until the king came out. But as he was hopping past one of the back windows, the king’s cook caught sight of him.
“Here’s just what I need,” the cook said. “The king has sent word that he must have chicken broth for his dinner.”
He opened the window, reached out his arm, grabbed Medio Pollito, and dropped him into the broth pot that hung over the fire. Oh, how wet and clammy the water felt as it closed over Medio Pollito’s head and plastered his feathers to his sides!
“Water, water!” he cried in despair. “Please have pity on me, and don’t soak me like this.”
“Ah, Medio Pollito,” replied the water, “you would not help me when I was a little stream out in the fields; now you are punished.”
Then the fire began to burn and scald Medio Pollito. He hopped and danced from one side of the pot to the other, trying to get away from the heat, and cried out in pain, “Fire, fire! Don’t scorch me like this; you can’t imagine how much it hurts!”
“Ah, Medio Pollito,” answered the fire, “you would not help me when I was dying out in the woods; now you are punished.”
At last, just when the pain was so bad that Medio Pollito thought he was going to die, the cook lifted the lid of the pot to see whether the broth was ready for the king’s dinner.
“Look at this!” he cried in horror. “This chicken is no good at all. It’s burned to a cinder. I can’t send that up to the royal table.”
He opened the window and threw Medio Pollito out into the street. But the wind snatched him up and whirled him through the air so fast that Medio Pollito could hardly breathe, and his heart pounded against his side so hard that he thought it would burst.
“Oh, wind!” he gasped at last. “If you rush me along like this, you’ll kill me. Please let me rest a moment, or…” But he was so out of breath that he couldn’t finish.
“Ah, Medio Pollito,” replied the wind, “you would not help me when I was caught in the branches of the chestnut tree; now you are punished.”
The wind swept Medio Pollito over the roofs of the houses to the highest church in the city, and left him there, fastened to the top of the steeple.
And there Medio Pollito stands to this day. If you go to Madrid and walk through the streets until you come to the highest church, you will see him perched on his one leg on the steeple, his one wing drooping at his side, gazing sadly out of his one eye over the city.
Retold by Talerie from The Green Fairy Book (opens in a new window) Public domain Copy this text, adapt it, use it however you like. A link back to Talerie is appreciated but never required. CC0 1.0 (opens in a new window)