The Fox and The Sparrow

There was once a fox who lived in a hole in a grassy field in the French countryside. He was never happy. He would scamper to and fro, catching mice where he could, and eating garbage from the folks who lived not to far away when he couldn't find any mice.

One day, as he was grumbling to himself about how scratchy the grass was as he brushed pass, he spotted a movement off to his right a few yards away.
"Oh goodie, there's my lunch," he thought. He immediately went into stealth mode and crept silently toward his prey. Closer, closer, closer, until he was just a breath away from the oblivious mouse. Suddenly, the fox sneezed.
"ACHOO!"

The mouse was off in a flash. The fox cursed and humphed to himself, letting his head fall on his front paws.
"Humph," he humphed.
After lying there for a minute or two, the fox saw another movement off to his left. Grumbling he got back up and quietly padded over to his next victim, however, he wasn't as quiet as he was the first time, and the mouse heard him coming. It darted off into the tall grass away from the fox.
"Grrrr," growled the fox, his mood quickly falling from its already low altitude.
After a few minutes he heard a squeak behind him. He quickly turned and pounced on the creature, however it scampered up his paw and jumped off his back before he realized what had happened.
"Gaaaahhh!" howled the fox. "Why can't I get just a single, meatless, mangy mouse?"

He kicked a pebble in front of him and turned around, planning to head back to his hole to eat some of the garbage he had stored for such occasions when he couldn't catch any mice.
"Ow!" a voice said. The fox lazily swung his head back around, but he couldn't see anything through the grass. "I say, what would you do that for?" the voice asked. The fox squinted, but still couldn't see anything.
"Who's there?" snarled the fox.
"I am, chap," the voice answered, predictably. "Though I shouldn't be. It's quite strange, it is. Can't really make head or tails of it!"

The fox hungrily walked toward the direction of the voice. Soon the grass parted in front of him, and he saw a small, English sparrow lying in a clearing, sprawled awkwardly with one wing bent at a strange angle.

"Ah! Foxy, I do say. do you think you could help an ol' chap out?" the sparrow asked, smiling as the fox walk into the clearing.
"And why would I do that?" questioned the salivating fox. "What have you ever done for me?"
"Well, nothing, I'm quite afraid! Though I dare say you could get a warm feeling right down in your belly if you were to straighten my wing for me!" the cheerful sparrow petitioned.
"Oh, I'm sure I would get a warm feeling in my belly," the fox answered. "Though I doubt it's the kind of warm feeling you're thinking of."
"Oh ho ho! Foxy! What a joke! But come now, I am in quite a lot of pain, and you are in a position to help me!" it chirped.
"Give me one good reason why I should help you instead of eat you," the fox challenged.
"Well, it tis the season, is it not?" the sparrow tried.
"I don't even know what that means, bird." And the fox began to advance on the helpless sparrow.
"Quite right, quite right..." the sparrow muttered to itself, seemingly completely oblivious to the hungry fox padding toward it. "Oh wait! I've got it!"
The fox stopped, glaring.
"You like mice, if I'm not mistaken?" the sparrow asked.
"Not particularly," grumbled the fox.
"I see, well, that's that!" the sparrow conceded.
"What's what?" the confused fox asked.
The sparrow laughed. "You know, I don't quite know, chap!" And the sparrow laughed to itself as it lay on the ground.

The fox was taken back. He didn't understand how this helpless sparrow could possibly laugh with a broken wing and the threat of being eaten alive.

The fox thought to himself for a second, then shrugged. A meal was a meal. He walked over to the sparrow and gobbled it up, then headed back to his hole in the ground to take his afternoon nap.

THE END

The moral of the story: You can never trust the French when they're hungry.