“Stuff and nonsense!” clucked the hen; only it did not sound quite like that, because she spoke in her own language, you see.
Well, the end of it all was that everybody was in favor of a king, save the plover, and he cried: “I have been free all my life, and I’ll die free!” Then away he flew to a dismal swamp, and was seen no more.
So they agreed to meet again next morning, if it was fine. Their king was to be the bird who could fly higher than all the rest, and they wanted a fine day so that nobody could say afterward, “I could have flown much higher, only it was so windy,” or something of the sort.
The next day was perfect, so they all gathered together in a big meadow. When the cuckoo had counted “Three,” they all rose up with one accord into the air, making such a cloud of dust that for a moment you could not see a thing.
Higher and higher they flew, but one by one the little birds had to give up, and in the end the eagle was the only bird left flying, and he looked as though he had reached the sun itself.
But a tiny little bird had joined them unasked, and he had not even a name.
Nobody noticed him hide himself among the feathers in the eagle’s back; so when the cuckoo had counted three, up he went with the rest, although they did not know it.
Now, when the eagle saw that all the others had given up, he, too, began to descend. Then out flew the little bird without a name, and up he went, much higher still.
“I am king! I am king!” cried the eagle, when he reached the ground.
“Not at all,” replied the little bird without a name, “for I have flown higher still,” and then down he came.