The male Cedar-crow flew to the Plover. 'Call a meeting of all the birds,' said he; 'on business.'
'What business?' asked the Plover.
'Well, that doesn't matter. Important business.'
'But still, I must know why to call the birds to a meeting; may be you want to disturb them for some trifle?'
'Not for a trifle at all; we want to give up our claim to the forest.'
'How do you mean "Give up your claim"?'
'Why, simply to give it up! We are worried out of our lives. And all because every one considers that we are their comrades, and that they can poke their beaks into our place as if it were their own.'
The Plover saw that there was something very strange, and not only strange, but dismal. The more he thought of it, the worse it seemed to him. However, there was nothing for it but to call a council. 'All right,' he said; 'come again at this time to-morrow.'
The next day the Plover flew over fields, pastures, and forests, wailing more mournfully than ever: 'Pity! Pity! Pity!...'