Claude was a very famous composer who lived in a house filled with velvet shadows and heavy silence. Everyone expected him to write grand music about the crashing sea or the drifting clouds. But on this morning, Claude sat at his piano with a heavy sigh. His music felt stuck, like a rainy day that wouldn’t end.
Suddenly, a sound drifted through the open window. It wasn’t the song of a nightingale or the chime of a distant bell. It was a rhythmic, scratching sound followed by a soft, inquisitive “cluck.” Claude’s ears perked up. He stood up and followed the sound out into the sun-drenched garden.
In the middle of a patch of clover stood a chicken named Colette. She was not an ordinary chicken. She had feathers that shimmered like pearls and a way of walking that was almost like a dance. Claude knelt in the grass, watching as Colette tilted her head and blinked at him with one bright, golden eye.
Colette began to move. She took three delicate steps, paused to peck at a dewdrop, and then performed a slow, graceful twirl. She flapped her wings just enough to stir the air, looking as elegant as any prima ballerina. To Claude, it was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Claude grabbed a pencil and a crumpled napkin from his pocket. He began to write as fast as he could. He captured the way the sunlight hit the grass and the gentle, hopping rhythm of Colette’s feet. “This is it!” he whispered. “The music of the morning!”
By the time the sun began to set, the masterpiece was finished. Claude held up the pages, his heart fluttering with excitement. At the very top of the first page, in his most elegant handwriting, he wrote the title: “Prelude to the
Afternoon of a Chicken.”
The next day, a music critic named Gustave came to visit. Gustave was a man who preferred long words and very serious symphonies. When Claude proudly showed him the new score, Gustave’s face turned as sour as al lemon. He pointed a long, bony finger at the title.
“A chicken?” Gustave barked, shaking his head. “My dear Claude, you cannot write a masterpiece about poultry! People want myths! They want magic! They want forest spirits!” He reached into his bag and pulled out a heavy book of ancient legends, pointing to a picture of a goat-man playing a flute. “You must call it a Faun!”
The music became famous all over the world, and everyone praised its “dreamy, forest-like” sound. But whenever the flute played those first, wandering notes, Claude would look out his window and wink. Colette would simply fluff her pearly feathers and give a secret, happy cluck.