“I’m sure I’m not,” said Girlie, feeling very indignant.
“But you must be,” said the Crow. “Pigs can’t fly, you know, and if you can’t either, you must be a kind of pig. Oh, you needn’t get so angry about it,” he continued, when Girlie began to remonstrate, “pigs are very nice in their way, if it wasn’t for their pride.”
“I didn’t know that pigs were proud before,” said Girlie; “I’m sure they’ve nothing to be proud of.”
“It’s just the people that have nothing to be proud of who usually fancy themselves most,” said the Crow; “look at the King’s Minstrel, for instance.”
“Well, yes, he’s proud enough, certainly,” said Girlie, laughing in spite of herself. “Do you know him?”
“Know him?” replied the Crow, “I should rather think I do. Why, I’ve known him ever since he was a boy, and he was as proud and stuck-up as an old tin kettle then.”
“As an old tin kettle,” repeated Girlie, “why, however can an old tin kettle be proud.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of the pride of a kettle?” said the Crow, who seemed surprised; “why, they’re the proudest things out. I knew one once,” he continued, “who came to a terrible end through his pride and folly. Shall I tell you about it?”
“I should like you to very much,” said Girlie, “if you wouldn’t mind coming down here, for it is making my neck ache dreadfully to keep looking up at you.”
The Crow obligingly flew down and, perching on the stump of a tree near to where she sat, he repeated the following story:—