But the poor Crow was now a sombre, black bird, wearing the seedy-looking, inky coat which we know so well to-day.  His heart was broken by his friend’s faithlessness, and he became a sour cynic who can see no good in anything.  He flies about crying “Caw!  Caw!” in the most disagreeable, sarcastic tone, as if sneering at the mean action of that Malay bird, which he can never forget.

THE MASQUERADING CROW

The Crow became very sour and disagreeable after his friend the Peacock’s cousin deserted him for more gorgeous company.  Though he pretended not to care because the Pheasant was now a proud, beautifully-coated dandy, while he was the shabbiest of all the birds in his coat of rusty black, yet in truth he did care very much.  He could not forget how the Peacock’s cousin had dyed him this sombre hue, after promising to paint him bright and wonderful, like himself.  He could not help thinking how fine he would have looked in similar plumage of a rainbow tint, or how becoming a long swallow-tail would be to his style of beauty.  He wished that there was a tailor in Birdland to whom he could go for a new suit of clothes.  But alas!  There seemed no way but for him to remain ugly old Crow to the end of the chapter.

The Crow went moping about most unhappily while this was preying on his mind, until he really became somewhat crazy upon the subject.  The only thing about which he could think was clothes—­clothes—­clothes; and that is indeed a foolish matter to absorb one’s mind.  One word of the Peacock’s cousin remained in his memory and refused to be forgotten.  He had advised the Crow to gather up the feathers which had fallen from the Peacock’s plumage and to make himself fine with them.  First the Crow remembered these words sadly, because they showed the unkind heart of his old friend.  Next he remembered them with scorn, because they showed vanity.  Then he remembered them with interest because they gave him an idea.  And that idea gradually grew bigger and bigger until it became a plan.

The plan came to him completely one day while he was sitting moodily on a tree watching the Peacock and his cousin sweeping proudly over the velvet lawn of the King’s garden.  For nowadays the Pheasant moved in the most courtly circles, as he had promised himself.  As they passed under the Crow two beautiful feathers fell behind them and lay on the grass shining in the sunlight with a hundred colors.

“Once more the cast-off plumage of the Peacock family is left for me!” croaked the Crow to himself.  “Am I only to be made beautiful by borrowing from others?  Perhaps I might collect feathers enough from all the birds to conceal my inky coat.  Aha!  I have it.”  And this was the plan of the Crow.  He would steal from every dweller in Birdland a feather, and see whether he could not make himself more beautiful than the Peacock’s cousin himself.

Now the Crow was a skilful thief.  He could steal the silver off the King’s table from under the steward’s very nose.  He could steal a maid’s thimble from her finger as she nodded sleepily over her work.  He could steal the pen from behind a scribe’s ear, as he paused to scratch his head and think over the spelling of a word.  So the Crow felt sure that he could steal their feathers from the birds without any trouble.