"Praised be Bacchus," said the Host. "How quickly quarrels are
forgotten when wine appears! But come, Sir Steward, you offered to
tell your tale. Begin now, and let us hear!"

Then the Steward told his tale of how the crow became black and
acquired his hoarse rough voice. The bird once belonged to Phoebus
and was snow-white, and could sing as sweetly as a nightingale. It
could talk too, as wily parrots and jackdaws can now. But one day it
told Phoebus a very unpleasant scandal, and in anger he tore out all
its white feathers and cast a spell over it, so that when its
feathers grew again they were black as pitch, and all the bird could
say, from that day forward, was "Caw--Caw" in an ugly grating voice.
"Good people," concluded the Steward, "take warning from the fate of
the crow, and never spread evil tales, or scandalous gossip. If you
do, people will dislike you and your voice as much as they dislike
the crow!"

* * * * *

By the time the Steward had finished his tale the sun was not more
than twenty-nine degrees above the horizon. My shadow was eleven feet
long, so, considering the season of the year, the time would be about
four o'clock. It happened too that we were just drawing near the
outskirts of a town. At this our Host said, "We have heard tales from
all save one--and that one is you, Sir Parson or Vicar. Come,
whichever you are, and tell us your tale, for I should not like this
game to be spoilt now at the very end."

The Parish Priest gave him a serious answer. "I will tell you no idle
tales. Does not St. Paul in his Epistle to Timothy warn us to leave