The Swallow and the Crow

Spring lay bright upon the fields. New grass shone in the sun, and the warm air smelled of leaves and blossoms. A swallow perched beneath the eaves and shook out her smooth feathers. She was quick and graceful, and when she flew, her wings cut the air as neatly as little shears.

On a branch nearby sat a crow. His plumage was black and plain, not the kind that made children point with delight on a sunny morning. The swallow looked at herself, then at the crow, and began to boast. “See how fine my feathers are,” she said. “In fair weather I flash through the sky, and all admire me.”

The crow did not answer angrily. He only folded his wings closer to his body. “Your feathers are very well in spring,” he said. “They suit the warm wind and the bright days. But when the north wind blows, when frost lies on the roofs and the ground is hard, what then? Fine feathers are not always the same as useful feathers.”

The swallow was silent. She knew that when cold weather came she flew away to warmer lands, while the crow remained and endured the winter. His dark plumage might not win much praise in May, but it served him when the world grew harsh.

So the crow ended the dispute. The swallow learned that beauty has its season, but usefulness shows its worth when easy days are gone.