On Sunday, the ostrich saw a young lady walking in the park. He fell in love with her at once and followed behind her at a distance, placing his feet in her very footsteps.
On Monday, he gathered violets as a gift. Too shy to give them, he left them at her door and ran away, his heart filled with joy.
On Tuesday, he composed a song for her, singing it over and over, believing it the most beautiful music.
On Wednesday, he watched her dine in a restaurant, forgetting to order his own supper, too happy to be hungry.
On Thursday, he wrote her a poem—his first—but lacked the courage to read it to her.
On Friday, he bought a new suit, fluffed his feathers, and felt fine and handsome, hoping she might notice.
On Saturday, he dreamed of waltzing with her in a great ballroom, holding her tightly as they whirled to the music. He awoke feeling wonderfully alive.
On Sunday, he returned to the park. Seeing the young lady again, his heart fluttered wildly. "Alas," he said to himself, "I seem too shy for love. Perhaps another time will come. Yet, surely, this has been a week well spent."