Henry the chick turns out to be a boy. We know this because of many little things - his comb, his wattle, the speed with which he's been developing - but also the fact that one recent morning, Henry started crowing, throwing his head back to the sky with fierce pride and letting loose with his bloodcurdling cries that rang around the village and made everyone grab their pitchforks and reach for their Bibles muttering protective prayers. No. If only his crows had been like that. Rather, they were wretched elongated clucks, lacking several of the requisite syllables to make up the war-cry of the rooster. He's not even sure about the correct time to crow, so that today, instead of shouting loudly at everyone to WAKE UP! HEY! I'M A ROOSTER! I'M A ROOSTER! WAKE UP!, he waited lethargically until three PM in the afternoon before apathetically announcing his masculinity to the world.
Henry, it seems, is a provisional rooster only; a rooster in training. I wouldn't go so far as to say that his cluck is busted but... actually, yes. Yes I would. That would make things so much simpler. If you could just take him in to the rooster mechanics and get his crow fixed up, that would be all handy dandy. A little tuning up, and some recalibration of his speed and gears, and soon we'd have him crowing at the proper time, in the proper way.
Ducks, on the other hand, I'm not sure what their excuse is. They quack all over the place, anytime they like, and a most unmelodious noise it is too - an onomatopoeic rendition of a toad's fart. Excuse me, sir, can you do anything about my duck? It quacks too well. Can't you bust it's quack for me? Thank you. Thank you so much.
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