Moral: don’t be ambitious.
They all laughed heartily at the fate of the Sky-born Snorter; and the wood-pigeon said, “Both your stories have a most melancholy ending, Toto. One hero boiled and eaten up, and the other burned! It is quite dreadful. I think I must tell the next story myself, and I shall be sure to tell one that ends cheerfully.”
“Yes, yes!” cried all the others. “Pigeon Pretty shall be the next story-teller!”
“And now,” continued the pigeon, “my Chucky must go home to his supper, for he is not well yet, by any means, and must be very careful of himself. Climb up on Bruin’s back, Chucky dear! so, that is right. Good-night, Toto. Good-night, dear madam. Now home again, all!” and flying round and round the bear’s head, Pigeon Pretty led the way towards the forest.
CHAPTER VIII.
“Is this one of your own stories that you are going to tell us, Pigeon Pretty?” inquired the squirrel, when they were next assembled around the cottage door.
“No,” replied the wood-pigeon. “This is a story I heard a short time ago. I was flying home, after paying a visit to some cousins of mine who live in a village some miles away. As I passed by a pretty white cottage, something like this, I noticed that there were crumbs scattered on one of the window-sills. ‘Here lives somebody who is fond of birds!’ said I to myself, and as I was rather hungry, I stopped to pick up some of the crumbs. The window was open, and looking in, I saw a pretty and neatly furnished room. Near the window was a bed, in which lay a boy of about Toto’s age. He was evidently ill, for he had a bandage tied round his head, and he looked pale and thin. Beside the bed sat a little girl, apparently a year or two older; a sweet, pretty girl, as one would wish to see. She was reading aloud to her brother (I suppose he was her brother) from a large red book. Neither of the children noticed me, so I sat on the window-sill for some time, and heard the whole of this story, which you shall now hear in your turn. It is called