Fine Feathers

Illustrated by Kramer
Ara, the crow, was aware of the fact that he was a crow. This and this alone made him different from his fellow crows. Because he recognized the fact, it made him aware of the things that separated the crows from the pheasants that abounded across the meadow—and he admired their fine plumage and elegant ways.
He began to scorn the idea of being a crow, and resented the attitude of his fellows. They were satisfied to be crows, and could not understand his resentment nor his desires, and they even scorned the idea that he was above them because he wanted to be other than a crow. In fact, they did not even understand his concept of being anything else. They did not look up to him for thinking over their heads.
He should have left them and made his way alone. But he wanted to show them how much more he was than they, and so he decked himself in the plumage of one of the pheasants and then started to lord it over the rest of the crows....
— ÆSOP
Wanniston fixed the other man with a piercing gaze. Sorry, he said. Quite sorry. But it can not be done that way, you know. The whole proposition was your idea.
I know, said the other man. He inspected Wanniston's large, well-proportioned frame, his strong features, and his absolute poise and wondered how any man, with all to recommend him, could be so utterly unsympathetic. The coldness in his face set him apart from one of the Galactic Ones. The proposition was sensible enough—yet I failed. Even though I failed, my manipulations were properly done, you will agree.
Wanniston nodded.
Where did I fail?
You struck a snag.
It was not my fault.
Are you crawling? snapped Wanniston.