But, indeed, they were not long left to themselves. There flew down to them even the aristocratic birds who dwelt one story higher—there flew down to them the pigeons. Where there was something for the gullet the pigeons forgot about their exalted origin. Only one, a pouter, thereupon cooed something about ancestors, and how many of them used to wear stars. He himself, he said, was formed of better flesh, and better leaven than chickens and pullets, and only so far humbled himself as to eat with them, because he wished to show them honour. “Let ’em move out of his road,” said he, “that he might sit down in the first place and show ’em who he was.” And he took their chickens’ food out of their very beaks, like a regular brigand, as Betuska had nicknamed him. And even then he was not satisfied, but disputed until the chickens allowed him some scrap or another which he then ordered to be carried away to the pigeon cote.
This was about the year 1848: the chickens had not even then a notion of equal rights. They gave where they had anything to give, they always retreated out of the pigeons’ way, and the pigeons took where there was anything to take. Now, however, things are already different.
But the pouter pigeon fared ill with his boastings. Wherever the pigeons betook themselves thither the democratic sparrows betook themselves, and showed up the wisdom of the pigeon cote without mercy. One sparrow in particular, who to all appearance might have been an editor, smirked at the first nobility until they ran after him. But this did not distract him from his purpose. He described how they, the sparrows, all dwelt in perfect equality,
