The Fox and the Crane

Once upon a time, a little Fox lived in the forest. She had red fur, a big fluffy tail, and she was as sly as can be. And down in the marsh lived a Crane. His legs were long, his neck was long, and his beak was longer still.

One day they met on the path.

“Good day, my dear friend Crane!” said the Fox, swishing her tail. “Come over to my place for lunch tomorrow. I’ll make you something nice!”

“Thank you, my dear friend Fox. I’ll be there,” said the Crane with a bow.

The next day the Fox cooked some porridge. It was hot and golden, with butter on top. Then she took it and spread it all over a big flat plate. Thin, thin, thin.

Along came the Crane, stomp-stomp on his long legs.

“Sit down, my friend!” said the Fox. “Eat up, don’t be shy!”

The Crane bent down. Tap went his beak, and no porridge. Tap-tap, and still none. His beak was sharp, but the porridge was as thin as a leaf. The Crane tapped and tapped at the plate, and his beak stayed empty.

And the Fox? Lick-lick went her little tongue, and she licked up all the porridge herself.

“Oh, my friend, why aren’t you eating?” she asked. “Don’t you like it?”

“It’s lovely, thank you,” the Crane said quietly.

But to himself he thought: “Just you wait, little Fox.”

A day went by. Then the Crane said:

“Now, my friend, it’s your turn to come to my place for lunch.”

The Fox licked her lips. Off she ran, hop-hop! She even got there early.

The Crane had cooked a fish soup with millet and a little bit of onion. He poured it into a tall jug. And the neck of that jug was narrow, oh so narrow.

“Help yourself, my friend!” said the Crane. “Eat up, don’t be shy!”

The Fox went up to the jug, but her nose wouldn’t fit. She tried from the side, and it still wouldn’t fit. She stood up on her hind paws, and still no luck. And the soup smelled so good that her tummy rumbled: grrr-umble!

Meanwhile the Crane stuck his beak into the jug. Slurp-slurp, and he finished it all, down to the very last drop.

“Oh, my friend, why aren’t you eating?” he asked. “Don’t you like it?”

The Fox didn’t say a word. She just let her ears droop.

The Fox went home hungry. Her tail dragged through the grass, and her tummy went grrr-umble!

“Some friend!” she grumbled. “Some lunch! Who treats their guests like that?”

And the Crane stood in his marsh, all puffed up and sulking. He was thinking about the flat plate and the thin, thin porridge.

“Some friend!” he snapped, clacking his beak. “Some lunch!”

From that day on, the Fox never went to visit the Crane, and the Crane never went to visit the Fox. When they meet on the path, they just turn away from each other. She goes one way, and he goes the other.

And so their friendship came to an end, on a flat plate and in a narrow jug.