“History remains silent on that important question, but my opinion would be that he stole it from some window-sill where the farmer’s wife had put out some newly made cheese to dry in a little wicker basket.”
“The fox says good morning to Mr. Raven, and [[155]]praises his plumage,” continued Emile; “and he goes on: ‘How trig and trim you are, how handsome you look to me!’ And so on and so forth. How could the raven help having a swelled head after such flattery?”
“That fox was certainly a cunning rogue. To make sure that the bird will listen, instead of beginning with flattery that might have aroused his intended victim’s suspicions (for the bird was not altogether lacking in common sense), he began by praising what is really not without merit. On a near view the raven is seen to be not by any means of a dead black; it shows glints of purple and blue on the back, and a flickering greenish tinge on the stomach, the total effect being that of some highly polished metal. At the first flattering words you may be sure the raven cast a complacent glance at its costume and, seeing it brilliant with blue, purple, and green, found it quite as rich as the fox declared it to be. So now the bird was well prepared—ready for the fulsome flattery that was to follow. The fox would have it believe the offensive odor clinging to it from eating so much carrion to be the aroma of musk, and its hoarse croaking to be melodious warbling. But just there was the difficulty, to make it croak and thus open its mouth, which held the cheese.”
“And if that voice of thine
Can match thy plumage fine,
Thou art the very phenix of all the woods around,”
quoted Emile. [[156]]
“Yes, that’s it,” said Uncle Paul. “Do you see how the sly rascal is making headway? He would have the raven believe itself a singer, mistake its raucous craa, craa for the note of the nightingale. Had he begun with any such extravagant compliment, he would have defeated his own ends; but he very cleverly led up to this supreme flattery and, to pique the raven’s foolish vanity still further, gave a doubtful tone to his admiration. ‘I know,’ was what he seemed to the bird to say, ‘that your voice is widely celebrated; but what I am not so sure of is whether it matches your splendid plumage, whether you can really sing in a manner worthy of so magnificent a costume. I must hear you, and if your vocal performance equals your outward appearance, then you will indeed prove yourself to be the paragon of birds, the very phenix of these forests.’ ‘Ah, you doubt it?’ said the raven to itself; ‘well, then, listen to this operatic trill: craa, craa, craa.’ ”
Emile again took up the fable:
“And so to prove it could