"how proudly and sonorously you sing, my dear cock!"

"but you, dear cuckoo, my light, how smoothly flows your long drawn-out note! there is no such singer in all the rest of our forest."

"to you, dear friend, i could listen forever."

"and as for you, my beauty, i protest that when you are silent i scarcely know how to wait till you begin again. where do you get such a voice?—so clear, so soft, so high! but no doubt you were always like that: not very large in stature, but in song—a nightingale."

"thanks, friend. as for you, i declare on my conscience you sing better than the birds in the garden of eden. i appeal to public opinion for a proof of this."

at this moment a sparrow, who had overheard their conversation, said to them:

"you may go on praising each other till you are hoarse, my friends; but your music is utterly worthless."

why was it, that, not fearing to sin, the cuckoo praised the cock?

simply because the cock praised the cuckoo.