'Your name, sir, is Smith,
But my name is Crow.
Please give me a sickle,
For if you do so
The Grass I can mow
As food for the Cow;
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!'
'With pleasure,' said the Blacksmith, 'if you will light the fire and
blow the bellows.'
So the Crow began to light the fire, and blow the bellows, but in so
doing he fell right in--to--the--very--middle--of--the--_fire_,
and was burnt!
So that was the end of him, and the Sparrow ate all the
_khichrî_.