The Pigeon, the Fox, and the Wise Heron (from Kalila and Dimna)

Once upon a time, beside a wide, slow river, there grew a tall palm tree.

Its trunk was rough and brown. At the very top, its long green leaves spread out like a big umbrella. And up there, high above the ground, a mother pigeon had built her nest.

Her name was Hamama. She had soft gray feathers, pink feet, and a gentle coo. She had woven her nest from twigs and grass and bits of soft fluff. And in that nest were two brand-new chicks.

They were round and fuzzy, with tiny beaks that were always open. "Peep! Peep!" they cried. That meant, "We are hungry!"

Hamama loved them more than anything in the world.

Every day, she flew down to the riverbank to find seeds. Then she flew all the way back up to feed her babies. Up and down. Up and down. It was hard work. But when she saw their fluffy little faces, she forgot all about being tired.

Down by the river lived a white heron named Malik. He had long thin legs, a long curvy neck, and a sharp yellow beak. He stood very still in the shallow water, watching the fish swim by. Malik was quiet and calm and very wise, and he and Hamama were good friends.

But in the bushes nearby lived a fox. He had orange fur, a bushy tail with a white tip, and a sly, sneaky smile. He was always looking for an easy trick.

One morning, the Fox came and stood at the bottom of the palm tree. He looked up, up, up at the nest.

"Hamama!" he called. "Oh, Hamama!"

Hamama peeked over the edge of her nest. "Yes?" she said.

The Fox puffed out his chest. "I am the king of this riverbank," he said. "And I have decided I want your chicks. Throw them down to me, so I can take them to my den."

Hamama gasped. She spread her wings over her babies.

"No!" she said. "They are my children!"

The Fox narrowed his eyes. "If you do not throw them down," he said, "I will climb up this tree. I will climb all the way to the top. And then I will take them myself!"

He scratched at the bottom of the trunk with his claws. Scritch, scratch.

Hamama shivered. She held her chicks close. "Please," she said. "Give me until tomorrow."

"Fine," said the Fox. "Tomorrow morning. Not one minute later." And he trotted off into the bushes, swishing his tail.

Hamama did not sleep that night. She sat on her nest with her wings around her chicks, worrying and worrying.

In the morning, she flew down to the river. Her feathers were all ruffled. Her eyes were tired.

Malik the heron looked up from the water. "Hamama," he said. "What is wrong? You look so worried."

Hamama told him everything. About the Fox. About the chicks. About climbing the tree.

Malik listened carefully. Then he tilted his long neck and looked up at the palm tree. He looked at its tall, straight trunk. He looked at the nest, way up high at the top.

"Hamama," he said slowly. "Have you ever seen a fox climb a palm tree?"

Hamama thought about it. "No," she said. "I have not."

"That is because foxes cannot climb palm trees," said Malik. "Their paws are made for running, not climbing. The trunk is too tall, and too straight, and too slippery. That Fox could not climb up to your nest, not even if he tried for a hundred years."

Hamama blinked. "Then why did he say he could?"

"Because he is hoping you will be too scared to think," said Malik. "Next time he comes, do not be afraid. Just tell him, 'If you can climb up, then climb up. But I will not throw my chicks down.'"

Hamama took a deep breath. She felt her heart grow calm.

"Thank you, Malik," she said. "You are a true friend."

She flew back up to her nest, just in time.

"Hamama!" called the Fox from below. "It is morning! Throw down your chicks!"

Hamama looked down at him. She was not shaking anymore.

"No," she said clearly. "If you can climb up, then climb up. But I will not throw my chicks down."

The Fox's ears twitched. "I will climb!" he said. "I really will!"

"Go on, then," said Hamama.

The Fox put his front paws on the trunk. He jumped. He slid back down. He jumped again. Scritch, scratch, slide. Bump! He landed on his bottom in the sand.

Hamama's chicks peeped. It sounded a lot like giggling.

The Fox stood up and brushed off his fur. His face was red under all the orange.

"Who told you foxes cannot climb?" he snapped.

"My friend Malik," said Hamama. "The heron."

The Fox's eyes narrowed. He turned and trotted down to the river.

There was Malik, standing still in the shallow water.

"Good morning, Mr. Heron," said the Fox, in his sweetest voice. "I have a question for you. When the wind blows hard from the left side, where do you put your head?"

"On my right side," said Malik.

"And when the wind blows from the right side?"

"On my left side," said Malik.

"And when the wind blows from every side at once?" asked the Fox, creeping a little closer. "Where do you put your head then? Under your wing? Show me!"

Malik looked at the Fox. He looked at his sneaky smile. He looked at the way he was creeping closer and closer.

And Malik did not tuck his head under his wing.

Instead, he spread his great white wings and rose up into the air. Whoosh! He flew up to the top of the palm tree and landed right next to Hamama.

"When the wind blows from every side," Malik called down, "I fly up high, where I can see everything. Especially foxes who ask too many questions."

The Fox stood on the riverbank with his mouth open. He looked at the heron. He looked at the pigeon. He looked at the two fuzzy chicks, peeping safely in their nest.

There was nothing he could do.

So the Fox turned around with a huff. He put his nose in the air and slunk off into the bushes. And he never bothered the palm tree again.

Hamama snuggled her chicks. Malik smoothed his feathers.

"Peep! Peep!" said the chicks.

"I know," laughed Hamama. "You are hungry."

And together, the pigeon and the heron flew down to the river to find breakfast.