The crows continued to fly southwest, over Smaland.  It was a glorious morning—­sunny and calm; and the birds down on the earth were singing their best love songs.  In a high, dark forest sat the thrush himself with drooping wings and swelling throat, and struck up tune after tune.  “How pretty you are!  How pretty you are!  How pretty you are!” sang he.  “No one is so pretty.  No one is so pretty.  No one is so pretty.”  As soon as he had finished this song, he began it all over again.

But just then the boy rode over the forest; and when he had heard the song a couple of times, and marked that the thrush knew no other, he put both hands up to his mouth as a speaking trumpet, and called down:  “We’ve heard all this before.  We’ve heard all this before.”  “Who is it?  Who is it?  Who is it?  Who makes fun of me?” asked the thrush, and tried to catch a glimpse of the one who called.  “It is Kidnapped-by-Crows who makes fun of your song,” answered the boy.  At that, the crow-chief turned his head and said:  “Be careful of your eyes, Thumbietot!” But the boy thought, “Oh!  I don’t care about that.  I want to show you that I’m not afraid of you!”

Farther and farther inland they travelled; and there were woods and lakes everywhere.  In a birch-grove sat the wood-dove on a naked branch, and before him stood the lady-dove.  He blew up his feathers, cocked his head, raised and lowered his body, until the breast-feathers rattled against the branch.  All the while he cooed:  “Thou, thou, thou art the loveliest in all the forest.  No one in the forest is so lovely as thou, thou, thou!”

But up in the air the boy rode past, and when he heard Mr. Dove he couldn’t keep still.  “Don’t you believe him!  Don’t you believe him!” cried he.

“Who, who, who is it that lies about me?” cooed Mr. Dove, and tried to get a sight of the one who shrieked at him.  “It is Caught-by-Crows that lies about you,” replied the boy.  Again Wind-Rush turned his head toward the boy and commanded him to shut up, but Fumle-Drumle, who was carrying him, said:  “Let him chatter, then all the little birds will think that we crows have become quick-witted and funny birds.”  “Oh! they’re not such fools, either,” said Wind-Rush; but he liked the idea just the same, for after that he let the boy call out as much as he liked.

They flew mostly over forests and woodlands, but there were churches and parishes and little cabins in the outskirts of the forest.  In one place they saw a pretty old manor.  It lay with the forest back of it, and the sea in front of it; had red walls and a turreted roof; great sycamores about the grounds, and big, thick gooseberry-bushes in the orchard.  On the top of the weathercock sat the starling, and sang so loud that every note was heard by the wife, who sat on an egg in the heart of a pear tree.  “We have four pretty little eggs,” sang the starling.  “We have four pretty little round eggs.  We have the whole nest filled with fine eggs.”