Katydid and the King of the Flock

A short story

Visits to my grandparents' house have always been some of my most cherished memories. I spent a few summers with them growing up, and I remember those hot summer days like they were yesterday. My grandmother and great-aunt would take me garage-saling to all sorts of interesting and wonderful old homes. We would work on numerous crafting projects while my grandmother shared tales of her childhood. One of those stories inspired this tale. This is for my Grandma Katy, one of the most beautiful and loving people on this Earth. ♡

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Hot summer days were the ones I lived for as a kid. The kind where the air thrummed with the buzz of cicadas and the sun hung heavy, casting a warm golden haze over the fields. Nearly every day, Mama would pile us into the car and head to Nana Rose and Papa Bill’s farm. The car would rumble down the dusty gravel road until the farmhouse came into view, its white paint peeling in places like memories fading with time. Inside, Mama and Nana always ended up in the kitchen, where the air was thick with the smell of freshly baked bread and sweet corn, their voices mingling with the soft clatter of pots and pans and the rhythmic thud of a knife chopping vegetables.

Meanwhile, Rod and I were turned loose, racing through the tall grass until our legs were streaked with dirt, our laughter carried away on the breeze. We’d dash past the chicken coop, where the hens clucked and scratched at the dirt, and down to the old oak tree that stood like a sentinel over the yard. Charles, older and ever responsible, would help Papa with the chores—mending fences, feeding the cows, or stacking bales of hay in the loft. From a distance, I’d watch them, their shirts soaked through with sweat but moving in a steady rhythm, like they were in tune with the heartbeat of the land.

One day, Rod didn’t come with Mama, Charles, and me to the farm. He was going to town with Daddy instead to get fitted for his new school uniform. He’d be starting at a new school next year. The whole ride there, I stayed quiet, my chin resting against the car window, watching the fields slip past.

“Come now, Katydid,” Mama said, her voice warm and comforting. “It’s just one day without Rod. You’ll be at a new school next year, and get fitted for your own uniform. Maybe Papa Bill will let you help him and Charles today. He used to let me help with the chickens when I was your age.”

The mention of the chickens brightened my mood. I loved watching the little chicks scurry after their mothers. Papa didn’t let me near them alone, though—not because of the hens, but because of Buster, their Rhode Island Red rooster. He was a sight to see, with his glossy black tail feathers and bright red comb standing proudly atop his head. Buster strutted about the barnyard like he owned the place, king of the flock.

“Buster’s an ornery son of a gun,” Papa always said, “but he’s good at his job.” The only problem was, Buster saw his job as protecting the hens from everyone, including me. If I so much as set a toe in his barnyard, he’d come after me, wings flapping, ready to pick me to pieces.

As soon as the car rolled to a stop in front of the old farmhouse, I flung the door open and bolted toward the barn, my feet barely touching the ground. Surely today, with Rod gone, Papa would let me collect the eggs. I found him half-buried under the tractor, tinkering with something as he muttered under his breath, a wrench clinking against the metal.

“Papa?” I called out, bouncing on the balls of my feet. “Can I collect the eggs today? Oh, please, oh please! Rod’s with Daddy, and I want to help!” I pleaded, my words tumbling over themselves in my excitement.

I heard a long sigh before Papa slid out from under the big red tractor. His face was smudged with soot from a morning of work, and he wiped his hands on the rag draped over his toolbox before standing up to face me.

“Now, Katy,” he said, his voice gentle but firm, “I’ve told you before, old Buster's gonna get ya if you step foot in that barnyard alone and I’ve got work to do here. You’re not big enough to handle that rascal. He’d have you backed into a corner, talons out, before you even knew what hit ya. I’m sorry, but you can’t go in there.”

His words hit me like a punch to the gut. My shoulders slumped as disappointment settled in. I knew there was no point in begging or arguing. What Papa said was final, and there was never any changing his mind once it was made up.

"Yes, sir," I muttered, turning on my heel toward the house. My feet dragged a little, and I kicked at the gravel, sending a few stray pebbles skittering along the path. That’s when the thought hit me. What if I snuck in from the back of the chicken coop? I could hop the fence, crawl through the back hatch window, and Old Buster wouldn’t even know I was there. I’ll be quick, in and out, and Papa will never find out, I thought, my heart thudding with excitement. The plan felt brilliant, and I imagined Papa’s face lighting up, impressed with how clever I could be.

I hesitated for a moment, wondering if I should just leave it. But the thought of impressing Papa made me push away any doubt. I quickly made my way to the back door, peeking through the screen. Mama and Nana were already in the kitchen, busying themselves and chatting like they always did. I grabbed an old tin bucket from the stoop, glancing back toward the machine shed. From the sounds of it, Charles must’ve been helping Papa with the tractor now. Perfect.

With the coast clear, I darted behind the great oak tree and headed toward the back of the coop. Buster was out in the yard, strutting around like usual, none the wiser to me sneaking about. The fence was a patchwork of wooden boards and chicken wire. I flipped the bucket upside down and used it to hoist myself up, clambering over the fence. I landed hard on my backside with a soft thud, freezing in place for a heartbeat, holding my breath to make sure Buster hadn’t noticed.

Quickly, I got to my feet and stood on a board to peer back over the fence, reaching for the bucket. I needed it to get through the back window. With the bucket in hand, I tiptoed my way to the small hatch. I turned the bucket over, placing it top down beneath the window, and carefully stepped up. With a quiet creak, I pushed the hatch open, peeking into the darkened hen house.

Most of the hens were out in the yard, just as I’d hoped. Only one remained, roosting on a nest. Perfect. She’s bound to have some eggs. I hoisted myself up, pulling my arms through the window as I looked below for a place to step down. The edge of a nesting box was just barely within reach. I stretched my foot out, placing it carefully on the corner of the box, and began to pull my other leg through.

But as I did, my little red shoe caught on the window sill. I gave it a tug, but before I knew it, I lost my footing and tumbled forward. My eyes squeezed shut, bracing for impact—but it never came. Slowly, I opened one eye, then the other, and glanced down. Before I could fully grasp what had happened, the hen began to squawk in terror. I reached out to quiet her, but I couldn’t move. My overalls were caught on a nail, leaving me hanging in midair, arms flailing as I tried, in vain, to calm the panicked chicken.

Just then, Buster’s piercing crow echoed from outside the coop, sending a jolt of panic through me. “Oh no!” I gasped, my voice barely a whisper. “He’s gonna get me now!” My legs flailed as I desperately tried to swing my foot toward the nesting box, but it was no use. I was stuck fast, and my arms, now flailing wildly above my head, made me feel like a helpless puppet on a string, trying in vain to pry myself free from that cursed nail.

Before I could even blink, the air around me erupted with the frantic flutter of feathers, and I could hear the rapid patter of talons on the floorboards below. Buster was in a frenzy, his angry crow turning into an all-out assault as he leapt again and again, snapping at my dangling legs. Each time he jumped, I could feel his beak just barely graze the soles of my shoes, his furious squawking like a warning bell. If he figures out he can hop up to the nesting box, I’m done for, I thought in a surge of panic.

“Papa! Papa, help!” I shrieked, voice cracking as I twisted in place, praying someone, anyone, would come to my rescue. “Charles! Buster’s gonna peck my feet off!”

From a distance, I heard the familiar booming voice of my papa calling out, “Katy! Katy, where are you, girl?”

“I’m in the coop! Please hurry!” My heart thudded in my chest as Buster flapped his wings furiously below, his eyes fixed on my dangling feet. “He’s gonna get me!” I screeched, tears welling up as the rooster made another angry leap.

It wasn’t long before Papa appeared at the doorway of the coop, his broad figure outlined by the morning light. One look at me, swinging helplessly from that nail with Buster hopping madly beneath me, and he doubled over with laughter. He tried to speak but was lost in the belly-deep chuckles that shook his whole body.

“What’s going on? Is she okay?” Charles ran up behind him, huffing and puffing, but when he saw the sight, he broke into laughter too, clutching his side.

“It’s not funny!” I cried, my voice high and desperate. “Buster’s going to eat me alive!”

With practiced ease, Papa swooped down, and in one smooth motion, he wrapped his arm around Buster, holding him close against his side. The old rooster squawked once but quickly settled, clearly no match for Papa’s firm grip. Charles was by my side in a second, carefully lifting me up and unhooking the back of my overalls from the nail that had me trapped.

I slumped down, relief washing over me like a wave, but my cheeks burned with embarrassment as I trudged out of the coop, head low. The walk of shame. By the time I reached the gate, Mama and Nana were hurrying over from the house, worry etched on their faces.

“Oh, my stars! What happened?” Mama called out, rushing to my side and sweeping me into her arms.

“Nothing to fret about, Opal,” Papa said, still chuckling as he shifted Buster under his arm. “I had Katy try to collect some eggs, but ol’ Buster had other ideas.”

Mama threw Papa a look, hands on her hips. “When are you going to get rid of that mean old bird?” she scolded, pulling me closer. I could feel the warmth of her chest against my cheek, and for a moment, I forgot all about my narrow escape.

“Never, Opal, never,” Papa said, shaking his head with a grin. “He might be a mean ol’ son of a gun, but he keeps his hens safe. Don’t worry, I’ll find something else for our Katydid to help with. How about teaching her to clean tractor carburetors next?”

With that, Papa turned and released Buster back into the yard, shutting the gate behind him. The rooster strutted off, none the worse for wear, while Papa made his way toward the machine shed. Mama and Nana exchanged a glance, shaking their heads as they started back to the house. I lingered for a moment, the relief of not getting into trouble slowly sinking in. Later on, I’d realize Papa thought Buster had taught me enough of a lesson for one day. He’d have been right—I never set foot in that barnyard again while Buster was around.

“Katy! You comin’?” Papa’s voice jolted me from my thoughts. I glanced back at the coop, where Buster strutted about proudly, and then ran to catch up with him. Behind me, Buster let out a triumphant crow. “Cock-a-doodle-doo!” he cried, as if claiming victory over the day. I shook my head, cheeks still burning from the whole ordeal, and ran to catch up with Papa. Maybe next time, I’d stick to cleaning carburetors instead.

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