God somehow sent the crow a little bit of cheese. The crow had perched upon a fir. She seemed to have settled down to enjoy her provender, but mused with mouth half-closed, the dainty bit still in it.
Unhappily, the fox came running past that minute. A whiff of scent soon brought him to a pause, and the fox sighted the cheese and licked his jaws.
The rascal stole on tip-toe to the tree. He curled his tail and gazed earnestly. He spoke so softly, scarce whispering each word:
"How beautiful you are, sweet bird! What a neck, and oh! what eyes, like a dream of Paradise! Then, what feathers! What a beak! And, sure, an angel's voice if only you would speak! Sing, darling; don't be shy! Oh, sister, truth to tell, if you, with charms like these, can sing as well, of birds you'd be the queen adorable!"
The silly creature's head turned giddy with his praise. Her breath, for very rapture, swelled her throat; the fox's soft persuasion she obeyed. And high as crow can pitch she cawed one piercing note.
Down fell the cheese! Both cheese and fox have gone their ways.
How often have they told us, please, and always to no use—that flattery's mean and base. The flatterer in our hearts will always find a place.