Just at this moment a dreadful roar echoed through the caverns till they rumbled like an earthquake, and into the golden chamber crashed a horrible dragon-creature, the guardian of the King’s treasure.  His eyes blazed red like coals, and from his mouth came smoke and flame so that the gold melted before his breath.  He rushed straight upon poor little Whitebird to gobble him up, and as he came he roared:  “Thief, thief! who steals my master’s treasure?  I scorch you with my eye!  I burn you with my breath!  I swallow you into the furnace of my throat.  Gr-r-r-r!”

There seemed no chance for Whitebird to escape, the creature was so near.  But with a cry of terror he fluttered and hopped away as fast as he could toward the narrow passage, through the gold chamber and the silver chamber, leaving all the treasure behind. (Oh, don’t you wish we could have known how the diamond chamber looked, with its rainbow light?)

Whitebird hopped and fluttered, fluttered and hopped, feeling the dragon’s hot breath close behind frizzling his feathers and blinding his eyes with smoke.  He seemed like to be roasted alive in this horrible underground oven.  But oh, there was the hole close before him!  Pouf!  With a terrible roar the dragon snapped at him as Whitebird popped through the hole; but he got only a mouthful of burnt tail-feathers.  Whitebird was safe, safe in the narrow passage where the dragon could not follow.  Up and up and up and up he feebly fluttered into the light of the dear outside world, and then he gave a chirp of joy to find that he really had escaped.  But oh, how tired and frightened he was!

Mother Magpie was sitting on a bush waiting for him, for she had guessed what would happen to the greedy bird.  And when she saw him she gave a squawk of laughter.

“O Whitebird,” she chuckled, “what a sight! what a sight!  Your lovely coat, your spotless feathers!  Oh, you greedy, greedy Blackbird!”

Then he who had been Whitebird looked down at himself and saw what a dreadful thing had happened.  And he closed his eyes and gave a hoarse, sad croak.  For the smoke and flame of the dragon’s breath had smirched and scorched him from top to toe, so that he was no longer white, but thenceforth and forever Blackbird.

I think Mother Magpie must have told the story to her children, chuckling over the greedy fellow’s failure.  And they told it to the children of sunny France, from whom I got the tale for you.  So now you know why the Blackbird looks so solemn and so sulky in his suit of rusty black; and why his nerves are so weak that if one suddenly surprises him, picking up seeds in the field, he gives a terrible scream of fright.  For he thinks one is that dreadful dragon-creature who chased him and so nearly gobbled him on that unlucky day, long ago.

Poor Brother Blackbird!  Don’t let him know I told you all this; it would make him so very much ashamed.

THE BLACKBIRD AND THE FOX