In a quiet forest, every evening, a little nightingale perched on a snow-white branch and poured out her song, filling the empty woods with music. Some little stars twinkled down, watching her sing. A great heavy owl came quietly out of her hole in the tree under which the nightingale sang.
“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?” hooted the old owl. “Do be quiet, little nightingale, and leave off your silly singing.”
But the nightingale only sang the louder. So the old owl waddled away off to the end of the wood. When the moon rose, she came back to the very spot under the snow-white branch to listen if the nightingale was singing still, and when she heard her the owl hopped up close under the branch, cried–
“Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?” and flapped her great wings.
Then the nightingale put her little head on one side and said, “Do you happen to mean me?”
“Of course! Who do you think I mean?”
“Well, I thought I had only a little rabbit, but if you will come with me I shall soon get some food cooked for you. It will not be much, but it will be clean.”
So the owl took the nightingale in her clumsy claws and flew with her to a little burrow under a honeysuckle close after sunset. The nightingale hopped along the snowy path and the owl waddled after her. The nightingale went into her little bedroom, but came out very soon with a nice fresh salad. The owl was a bit too late.
When the moon rose on the snow-white branch, she said, “You little fowl, you did not mean to give me that; that was only a rabbit’s salad. Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you?”
“Oh, I cooked that myself. I translate vermicelli into a salad.”
“You are quite right,” said the old owl, “but instead of that take your salad now.” And as she gave her a great flap with her wings at the head, the nightingale fell down dead at her feet.
“Then only,” said the grumpy old owl, “the story is told. Now, who else is there to listen to you?” And she flew off to the end of the wood.
Moral: “A good heart in a bad company may expect to get no good.”