Prevod

In the old days, every sound still had sense and meaning. When the smith’s hammer rang out, it cried, “Strike me too! Strike me too!” When the carpenter’s plane rasped, it said, “There you are! There, there you are!” When the mill’s wheels began to clatter, they said, “Help, Lord God! Help, Lord God!” And if the miller was a cheat and set the mill going, it spoke in proper High German, asking slowly at first, “Who is there? Who is there?” Then it answered quickly, “The miller! The miller!” And at last, very fast indeed, “Steals away, steals away, three measures out of every eight.”

In those days the birds, too, had a language of their own, which everyone understood. Now it sounds only like chirping, screeching, and whistling, and in some birds like music without words. But the birds took it into their heads that they would no longer live without a ruler, and would choose one of their number as king. Only one of them, the lapwing, was against it: he had lived free, and free he meant to die. Flying anxiously to and fro, he cried, “Where shall I go? Where shall I go?” He withdrew into lonely, unvisited marshes and never again showed himself among his kind.

The birds now wished to discuss the matter, and one fine May morning they all gathered from woods and fields: eagle and chaffinch, owl and crow, lark and sparrow—why should I name them all? Even the cuckoo came, along with the hoopoe, his sexton, so called because he always makes himself heard a few days before the cuckoo. A very tiny bird, who had no name as yet, also mingled with the flock. The hen, who happened to have heard nothing of the whole affair, was astonished at the great gathering.

“What, what, what’s to be done there?” she clucked. But the cock reassured his dear hen, saying, “Nothing but fine folk!” and told her what they intended. It was decided that whichever bird could fly highest should be king. A tree frog sitting in the bushes heard this and called out in warning, “Wet, wet, wet! Wet, wet, wet!” for he thought many tears would be shed over it. But the crow said, “What nonsense!” It would all be settled peacefully.

They now decided to take flight that very morning, while it was so fine, so that no one could say afterwards, “I should have flown higher still, but evening came, and then I could go no farther.” At a given signal, the whole flock rose into the air. Dust swirled up from the field; there was a mighty rushing and roaring and beating of wings, and it looked as though a black cloud were sweeping past. But the smaller birds soon fell behind, could go no farther, and dropped back to earth. The larger ones held out longer, but none could match the eagle, who rose so high that he could have pecked out the sun’s eyes. When he saw that the others could not reach him, he thought, “Why fly any higher? You are king already,” and began to descend. All the birds below cried out to him at once, “You must be our king! No one has flown higher than you.”

“Except me!” cried the little fellow without a name, who had hidden himself among the eagle’s breast feathers. Since he was not tired, he flew up and rose so high that he could see God sitting on his throne. But when he had gone that far, he folded his wings, sank down, and cried below in a thin, piercing voice, “King am I! King am I!”

“You, our king?” the birds cried angrily. “You have only managed it by tricks and cunning.” They set another condition: whoever could fall deepest into the earth should be their king. How the goose slapped down on the ground with her broad breast! How quickly the cock scratched a hole! The duck fared worst: she jumped into a ditch, sprained her legs, and waddled off towards the nearby pond, crying, “Beggar’s business! Beggar’s business!” But the little nameless bird found a mousehole, slipped down into it, and called out in his thin voice, “King am I! King am I!”

“You, our king?” cried the birds, angrier still. “Do you think your tricks should count?” They decided to keep him prisoner in his hole and starve him out. The owl was posted as a guard outside it: on pain of death, she was not to let the rascal escape. But when evening came, the birds were so tired from their efforts at flying that they went to bed with their wives and children. The owl alone remained beside the mousehole, staring steadily into it with her great eyes.

Meanwhile, she too had grown tired, and thought, “You might close one eye. You can still keep watch with the other, and the little villain shall not get out of his hole.” So she closed one eye and stared fixedly at the mousehole with the other. The little fellow poked his head out and tried to slip away, but the owl stepped in front of him at once, and he drew his head back in. Then the owl opened one eye again and closed the other, intending to alternate like this all night. But when she closed the first eye once more, she forgot to open the other, and as soon as both eyes were shut, she fell asleep. The little bird soon noticed and slipped away.

Ever since then, the owl has not dared show herself by day, or the other birds chase after her and ruffle her feathers. She flies out only at night, but she hates and hunts the mice because they make such wicked holes. The little bird, too, is reluctant to show himself, for he fears it would cost him his neck if he were caught. He slips about among the hedges, and when he feels quite safe, he sometimes calls, “King am I!” And so the other birds mockingly call him the hedge-king, or wren.

But no one was happier than the lark that she did not have to obey the wren. As soon as the sun appears, she rises into the air and cries, “Oh, how lovely it is! Lovely it is! Lovely! Lovely! Oh, how lovely it is!”