'Your name, sir, is Smith,
But my name is Crow.
Please give me a sickle,
For if you do so
The Grass I can mow
As food for the Cow;
Madam Cow will give milk
To the Deer sleek as silk;
The pain will be borne,
He will give me his horn,
And I'll dig a clean rill
For the water to fill;
Then I'll wash beak and feet
And the nice khichrî eat;
Though I really don't know
What the Sparrow can mean,
For I'm sure, as Crows go,
I'm remarkably clean!'
'With pleasure,' said the Blacksmith, 'if you will light the fire and blow the bellows.'
So the Crow began to light the fire, and blow the bellows, but in so doing he fell right in—to—the—very—middle—of—the—fire, and was burnt!
So that was the end of him, and the Sparrow ate all the khichrî.
THE TIGER, THE BRAHMÂN, AND THE JACKAL
Once upon a time a tiger was caught in a trap. He tried in vain to get out through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he failed.
By chance a poor Brâhman came by. 'Let me out of this cage, O pious one!' cried the tiger.
'Nay, my friend,' replied the Brâhman mildly, 'you would probably eat me if I did.'
'Not at all!' swore the tiger with many oaths; 'on the contrary, I should be for ever grateful, and serve you as a slave!'
Now when the tiger sobbed and sighed and wept and swore, the pious Brâhman's heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of the cage. Out popped the tiger, and, seizing the poor man, cried, 'What a fool you are! What is to prevent my eating you now, for after being cooped up so long I am just terribly hungry!'