One pale morning, when the mist still lay low over the field, a crow flew from the dairy yard with a piece of white cheese held firmly in her beak. She beat her black wings twice, crossed the stone wall, and settled on the branch of an ash tree. The cheese was fresh and thick, resting in her beak like a prize she meant to keep all to herself.
Below the ash tree, a fox came stepping through the grass, his red coat brushed by the morning dew. He was looking for his breakfast, and his narrow nose lifted at once when he spotted the crow above him. He stopped at the foot of the tree. First he saw the bird, and then he saw the white cheese, while his tail gave one slow sweep over the ground.
The crow tucked her claws more tightly around the branch, for she did not mean to share. The fox sat back on his haunches and looked up, as if he had come only to admire the morning. "Good day, fair crow," he called. "How bright your feathers are. They shine as though they had been polished in the night."
The crow turned one round eye down toward him. She kept the cheese firmly in her beak, but her neck lifted just a little. The fox pressed one paw to his chest. "I have seen many birds," he said, "but none with such a noble shape. If your voice is as fine as …
6 chapters
