After a long hard winter of meagre fare, the cock magpie was at his sleekest on the first day of spring. Now it was time for him to call his mate. He knew she would not be able to resist the handsome fellow he saw reflected in the puddle from which he drank.
In fact every creature should be allowed to admire such a fine avian specimen, he thought. It would be their last chance for a while, too, for when he was building his nest, and then gathering food for his mate and chicks, he would not have the time to display himself. Nor would he look so neat and tidy as now.
He flapped his way up to the highest bough of the tallest tree in the forest, a bare larch whose needles had not yet had time to sprout. There he sat, flicking his tail to steady himself as he swayed in the gentle breeze, silhouetted against the sky, visible to anyone who lifted their eyes. But was anyone looking?
He gazed around and saw the fox rooting about in the undergrowth, too busy to take his mind off the search for more food; the squirrel darting up and down a pine tree, looking for the nuts and seeds it knew it had stored around here somewhere; the capercaillie strutting around the forest floor, busily preparing its lek for the mating season. But not one of these creatures – not to mention the flocks of song birds flitting about the forest – noticed him, let alone paid him any attention.
This would not do; such a handsome bird as he jolly well ought to be admired. So he called for their attention.
“Croak!” he cried.
But that’s no way to be discovered.