* * * * *

As the canon’s yeoman finished his tale of the false alchemist we entered a little town, Bob-up-and-down, on the Canterbury high-road.  Our Host began at once to joke at the expense of the Cook, who was lagging behind the party, half asleep on his horse.  “Wake him, somebody,” he said.  “See how he sleeps!  He’ll fall into the mud in a moment!  Wake him, and to punish him we’ll make him tell an extra tale.  Rouse yourself, Cook—­were you awake all last night or are you drunk?”

The Cook answered thickly, “Sir Host, I do not know why, but my head feels so heavy that I’d rather go to sleep than be given a gallon of the best ale in Eastcheap!” At that the Steward spoke up, “Well, Sir Host, if it will help the Cook, I’ll tell a tale now and so let him off his task.  Look at him—­he’s either ill or very drunk!  Just see how his head wags!” He and the others laughed.  The Cook was angry.  He glared at the Steward and tried to answer but could not, and in his excitement he fell from his horse.

There he lay, stretched on the dirty road, and we had much ado to lift him up to the saddle again.  “You’ve no right to make game of a man in that way, sir,” said Harry Bailey to the Steward.  “You might need his help one day.”  “I meant no harm,” answered the Steward.  “See here, in token of fellowship let him drink my health and restore himself with this wine which I have in a gourd.”  The Steward handed this to the Cook, who at once put it to his lips and emptied it at one draught.  We all laughed at this eagerness, and at the sudden change which came over him.  He was now all smiles and friendliness.  “Praised be Bacchus,” said the Host.  “How quickly quarrels are forgotten when wine appears!  But come, Sir Steward, you offered to tell your tale.  Begin now, and let us hear!”

Then the Steward told his tale of how the crow became black and acquired his hoarse rough voice.  The bird once belonged to Phoebus and was snow-white, and could sing as sweetly as a nightingale.  It could talk too, as wily parrots and jackdaws can now.  But one day it told Phoebus a very unpleasant scandal, and in anger he tore out all its white feathers and cast a spell over it, so that when its feathers grew again they were black as pitch, and all the bird could say, from that day forward, was “Caw—­Caw” in an ugly grating voice.  “Good people,” concluded the Steward, “take warning from the fate of the crow, and never spread evil tales, or scandalous gossip.  If you do, people will dislike you and your voice as much as they dislike the crow!”

* * * * *

By the time the Steward had finished his tale the sun was not more than twenty-nine degrees above the horizon.  My shadow was eleven feet long, so, considering the season of the year, the time would be about four o’clock.  It happened too that we were just drawing near the outskirts of a town.  At this our Host said, “We have heard tales from all save one—­and that one is you, Sir Parson or Vicar.  Come, whichever you are, and tell us your tale, for I should not like this game to be spoilt now at the very end.”