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One bright morning, Crow found a wedge of
cheese cooling beside the farmhouse
window.

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She carried it across the meadow and
settled on the broad branch of the old
oak.

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The cheese was pale yellow, with three
round holes and a golden edge.

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Crow held it carefully in her beak while
sunlight gleamed across her dark feathers.

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Fox was trotting along the stone wall when
a rich, milky smell reached his nose.

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He followed it to the oak and spotted
Crow's breakfast high above.

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His stomach rumbled.

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He could not climb the smooth trunk, and
Crow was watching him closely.

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Fox sat beneath the branch, tucked his
paws together, and began to think.

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'Good morning, magnificent Crow,' Fox
called.

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'Your feathers shine brighter than the
quiet pond.

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Surely no bird in the whole meadow is so
splendid.'

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Crow straightened with pleasure, and the
blue-purple sheen on her wings caught the
light.

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Yet she remembered the cheese.

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She kept her beak firmly closed and gave
Fox only a watchful glance.

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Fox tilted his head.

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'Such beautiful feathers must belong to
the finest singer in the countryside.

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If I heard one note, I would call you
queen of every bird.'

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Crow wanted very much to believe him.

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Forgetting what she held, she lifted her
chin and opened her beak.

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'Caw!'

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she sang.

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Down tumbled the cheese, turning once in
the air.

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Fox caught the cheese neatly between his
front paws.

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Crow's song stopped.

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'Your feathers truly are handsome,' Fox
said, 'but I praised your voice because I
wanted your breakfast.'

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He picked up the wedge, gave a small bow,
and padded away beside the wall.

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Crow watched him go, hungry, embarrassed,
and much less pleased by his glittering
words.

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When the meadow grew quiet, Crow settled
beside the little hollow in the oak.

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She thought about Fox's compliments.

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Some had sounded sweet, but they had been
chosen to make her forget what mattered.

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'Praise is not proof,' she murmured.

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Next time, she decided, she would listen
for honest reasons—and keep hold of her
lunch while she listened.

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The following day, Fox returned to the
oak.

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Crow had found a smaller wedge of cheese
and held it safely beneath one foot.

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Fox looked up, then looked down.

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'I was clever yesterday, but I was not
fair,' he said.

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'I am sorry.

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I am hungry again, so this time I am
asking: would you share with me?'

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Crow studied Fox's face.

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There was no dazzling speech and no hidden
trick—only a plain question.

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She divided the cheese, kept one half, and
dropped the other into the soft grass.

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Fox thanked her before taking a bite.

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Beneath the old oak, they ate in
companionable quiet.

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Honest words had brought them something
flattery never could: a fair beginning.