The Ugly Crow (Mark Twain Style)

It was a fine day. Not too hot as to make the pond dry up, which it often did some sunny afternoons, for it was not a strong willed pond—it came with rains, left again in the wink of an eye, and when it laid, it laid dismally. It was a fine day. Not too hot yet not too cold either, in my account. There was no breeze, no cloud, no whisper of winter. There lived a black crow in a tree beside the pond. I say she was black, for there is no other sympathetic thing to be said for her. Proud as a peacock, as they say, she ruled her branch with utmost severity, propriety, and absurdity. Proud as a peacock, yet with nothing to show for it. On that fine nearly ordinary day, the crow stood eating a small delicacy—a piece of yellow cheese. This was the only event holding as out of the ordinary, as the crow, for all her pride, was not a fine creature. She stood at the end of the branch, as to be in the clearest sight of her neighbors, to savoring, treasuring, idolizing, the small cheese.

“Hello there!” cried a cheerful voice from the ground. A young charming fox walked up, his gait quick and spry, making the blades of grass around him stand a little straighter. “A fine day, Madame, a fine day—and a fine day for you especially, I see,” he said, nodding towards the cheese.

The crow attempted a flirtatious smile at the fox in which attempt she failed dismally.

“A day what could hardly be made better.” Nobody had ever done what the fox did next. He tilted up his chin at an angle of perfection and called, “Lady, you must have a sweet voice to join that sweet voice of yours. Sing me a song, won’t you?”

He had won without hardly a fight, like a young vagabond, who dons knight’s clothing, marches up to seize a city, and arrives on time for his banquet of honor, prepared by his surest enemies. The crow could not refuse him. Many say that truly it was the perfect tilt of pointed chin. The crow’s beak opened, letting out a shriek to make the pond dry up in a moment. The cheese had landed perfectly in the fox’s mouth. No time was taken by him for savoring, treasure, or idolizing. All he said was, “Good day, Mam. And thank-you kindly.”

What became of the crow? She stayed very much the same, although she never ate her dinner on the edge of the branch anymore. The next day the pool was gone. A fortnight come it was back again. What is the foreseen, dreaded, sagely moral of this story? Some have said that it is—Pride comes before the fall. This is a true statement, but I do not believe that it could help the crow very much. The advice I would offer—If you are ugly, the world only wants your cheese.