'Your name, sir, is Grass,
But my name is Crow.
Oh, give me some blades, please,
For if you do so
Madam Cow will give milk
To the Deer sleek as silk;
The pain will be borne,
He will give me his horn,
And I'll dig a clean rill
For the water to fill;
Then I'll wash beak and feet
And the nice _khichrî_ eat;
Though I really don't know
What the Sparrow can mean,
For I'm sure, as Crows go,
I'm remarkably clean!'
But the Grass said, 'Certainly I will give you Grass; but first you
must go to the Blacksmith, and ask him to make you a sickle. Then you
can cut me, for who ever heard of Grass cutting itself?'