“Here is the very thing I want,” he exclaimed, “for the king has just sent a message to say that he must have chicken broth for his dinner.” Opening the window he stretched out his arm, caught Medio Pollito, and popped him into the broth pot that was standing near the fire. Oh! how wet and clammy the water felt as it went over Medio Pollito’s head, making his feathers cling to him. “Water! water!” he cried in his despair, “do have pity upon me and do not wet me like this.” “Ah! Medio Pollito,” replied the water, “you would not help me when I was a little stream away on the fields. Now you must be punished.” Then the fire began to burn and scald Medio Pollito, and he danced and hopped from one side of the pot to the other, trying to get away from the heat and crying out in pain: “Fire! fire! do not scorch me like this; you can’t think how it hurts.” “Ah! Medio Pollito,” answered the fire, “you would not help me when I was dying away in the wood. You are being punished.” At last, just when the pain was so great that Medio Pollito thought he must die, the cook lifted up the lid of the pot to see if the broth was ready for the king’s dinner. “Look here!” he cried in horror, “this chicken is quite useless. It is burned to a cinder. I can’t send it up to the royal table.” And opening the window he threw Medio Pollito out in the street. But the wind caught him up and whirled him through the air so quickly that Medio Pollito could scarcely breathe, and his heart beat against his side till he thought it would break. “Oh, wind I” at last he gasped out, “if you hurry me along like this you will kill me. Do let me rest a moment, or—” But he was so breathless that he could not finish his sentence. “Ah! Medio Pollito,” replied the wind, “when I was caught in the branches of the chestnut tree you would not help me. Now you are punished.” And he swirled Medio Pollito over the roofs of the houses till they reached the highest church in the town, and there he left him fastened to the top of the steeple. And there stands Medio Pollito to this day. And if you go to Madrid and walk through the streets till you come to the highest church, you will see Medio Pollito perched on his one leg on the steeple, with his one wing drooping at his side and gazing sadly out of his one eye over the town. THE THREE BROTHERS By Hermann R. Kletke There was once upon a time a witch who in the shape of a hawk used every night to break the windows of a certain village church. In the same village there lived three brothers, who were all determined to kill the mischievous hawk. But in vain did the two eldest mount guard in the church with their guns; as soon as the bird appeared high above their heads sleep overpowered them, and they only awoke to hear the windows crashing in.