"Look at the skies," whispered the Dog kindly. "Look at the trees where God made beauty. But it is only a sorrow to look on me where God planted ugliness." sighed the Dog, "such a fine small beak you have."
Not his most piercing, his most murderous crow could move this remarkable rag. Not the words of his anger could send this Dog away. Chauntecleer shuddered with rage. His wattles trembled. His feathers stood out and shivered. And seeing that there was nothing else to do, he bit the dog savagely on the nose. ...
