He was a boy once. His name was Charles and he talked to chickens, so they called him Charles Chickens. He didn’t just talk to chickens: he loved them; they were his whole world. Every day he used to feed them, give them water, play hide-and-seek with them, and if a hen got broody and wanted to go for a walk, he would even sit carefully on her egg for her and not move a muscle until she got back. He was ten years old and other children his age thought he was mad and wouldn’t play with him but he was never lonely because he had seventy-two chickens to keep him company.
Towards the end of summer, when the trouble began, Charles began to walk like a chicken. He kept his back perfectly straight, moved his head stiffly to and fro and waggled his elbows solemnly in time to a chicken music that only he could hear. As he moved, he would pick up his feet slowly and carefully put them down again, never shuffling or dragging them like other children. It was when Charles walked around the house like this and started to eat like a chicken that his parents began to get concerned.
-Charles, his father said one night at dinner , don’t flap at the table, it’s very rude.
“I am Charles, King of Chickens” , chanted Charles
“ No bird will be soup who follows me”