The sun rose every morning at Soppy Farms to the crow of the rooster. The day started, the animals woke, the farmer would start his work, and the mother hen tended to her chicks.
There was one of these chicks that always seemed to get into trouble.
“Get away from the mud!” she would tell him. “You are always so filthy!”
Or when he would pick through his food, she would snap, “Why are you eating that way? You are odd.”
Then, of course, her feathers would ruffle up when he was too loud, or too shy, or too wild. “You are nothing but problems,” she would mutter often.
One day, the chick was no longer a chick, but a rooster. Instead of learning his job, though, he lounged around different areas of the farm: by the barn, near the sty, and around the pond. Days when he came back to the coop, the hen would shake her head disapprovingly, making comments about how he looked, how he acted, and what he did with his days.
When the old rooster retired, another came to take his place, but it was not the chick that had been raised on Soppy Farms. The day started, all the same. The animals woke. The farmer worked. The chick that had become a rooster meandered around with nothing to do.
And this was the true tragedy: that the chick never learned he could have made the sun rise.