"Where do you like best to feed your flocks?" a man asked an old cowherd.
"Here, sir, where the grass is neither too rich nor too poor. Otherwise, it's no use."
"Why not?" the man inquired.
"Do you hear that melancholy cry from the meadow?" answered the shepherd. "That is the bittern. He was once a shepherd, as was the hoopoe. I'll tell you the story.
The bittern pastured his flocks on rich green meadows where flowers grew in abundance. His cows became wild and unmanageable. The hoopoe drove his cattle to high, barren hills where the wind plays with the sand. His cows grew thin and weak.
When evening came and the shepherds tried to drive their cows home, the bittern could not gather his. They were too high-spirited and ran away. He called, 'Come, cows, come!' but it was useless; they ignored him.
The hoopoe, however, could not even get his cows to stand, so faint and weak had they become. 'Up, up, up!' he screamed, but in vain. They remained lying on the sand.
That is what happens when one lacks moderation. And to this day, though they have no flocks to watch, the bittern still cries, 'Come, cows, come!' and the hoopoe, 'Up, up, up!'"