Francis the Proud Pheasant: A Tale of Honesty and Humor

Long ago, in the warm and sun-drenched southern woods, there lived a pheasant named Francis Quillington. Francis was no ordinary bird—his bronze greaves gleamed like polished armor, and his waistcoat was the epitome of elegance, embroidered with a majestic bird that reflected the sunlight like a mirror. He strutted through the golden forest like a proud matador, convinced that he was the most magnificent creature to grace the woodland.

Despite his striking appearance, Francis’s mind was small, and his wits were often scattered. He frequently found himself lost, even in parts of the forest he had known all his life. But he had one thing he cherished above all else: his glorious, shimmering tail—the most splendid in the entire forest.

One bright spring morning, with the sky a flawless shade of blue, Francis took a leisurely stroll down a winding woodland path. He admired his reflection in his shiny waistcoat, barely noticing where he was going, until he reached a sunlit clearing. Here, a large oak tree had fallen, creating a natural seat. There, lying stretched across the trunk, was a sleek striped cat with half-closed eyes.

“O Cat,” Francis said boldly, for he always spoke his mind—though often he had little to say—“Who are you?”

The cat smiled to himself. He was a creature of quiet evenings and soft, swift fur. “I am the cat of the fluffy paws and the mewling whiskers,” he replied. “I belong to no one but myself.”

Francis puffed up his chest. “I own a waistcoat,” he said proudly, “and it has a fine bird embroidered on it! Look!” He glanced down, momentarily captivated by his own reflection.

“Friend,” the cat said, “since the weather is so fair and the bluebells are tinkling so sweetly, won’t you join me for a bite to eat?”

Francis, distracted and somewhat confused, asked again, “Who are you?”

“I am the cat of the impatient stomach and the grumbling ears,” the cat replied. “Meet me at the woodcutter’s hut in an hour, and I’ll have something ready for you.”

“Very well. Goodnight, or goodbye,” said Francis, wandering off without a clue where he was headed.

His small brain soon led him to a cool river, where the heat of the day made him thirsty. He removed his bronze greaves and splendid waistcoat and lay on his back in a shallow pool, gazing up at the clouds. To him, the fluffy white clouds looked like a flock of enormous pheasants soaring across the sky.

“Surely, those must be my kin,” he mused aloud. “That cat may have fine whiskers, but he has no wings. One day, I will soar just like those great white birds.”

Nearby, a water-rat overheard Francis’s foolish chatter and laughed. “Wings are all very well,” he said, “but you couldn’t swim with that grand and glorious tail of yours. Don’t you wish you had warm, water-resistant fur like mine, instead of that poor waistcoat?”

“Leave me be,” Francis snapped.

“No offense meant,” said the rat. “But listen—meet me at the woodcutter’s hut in half an hour. I’ll give you a beautiful shirt made of fish scales, as a token of friendship.”

“Alright,” Francis agreed, a little annoyed that the rat had insulted his waistcoat.

After drying off, Francis resumed his wandering. Hunger soon called to him, and he caught the delicious scent of oats wafting through the woods. Following his nose, he found himself inside a crooked little house, then into the pantry—and finally, into a large tin of porridge oats.

Francis feasted until he was utterly stuffed, the buttons of his jacket straining and popping. Still, he was not satisfied and continued reaching deeper into the tin until suddenly, he tumbled in and the lid slammed shut behind him.

Inside the tin, Francis continued munching happily—until he heard soft footsteps approaching.

“Where is that foolish bird?” muttered the cat. “If I don’t bring food to the woodcutter, I’ll be out in the cold tonight.”

“Where is that stupid bird?” echoed the water-rat anxiously. “If I don’t bring a meal, the woodcutter will set traps and cut off my tail!”

Francis suddenly realized the trouble he was in. He had eaten all the woodcutter’s oats! The woodcutter was not to be trifled with, especially if he was known to kick cats out in the snow and cut off rats’ tails.

Desperately, Francis rocked and pushed the tin, trying to escape. In the midst of his frantic struggle, the woodcutter arrived and opened the door—just as Francis tumbled out, colliding with the cat and rat and covering all three in oat dust.

“What is going on here?” the woodcutter demanded.

“It was him!” said the cat and the rat in unison.

“Not true!” Francis protested, dusting himself off.

“Who might you be?” the woodcutter asked.

“Francis Quillington, at your service,” he replied, trying to keep his dignity despite his dusty waistcoat.

“Now look here,” Francis said, “this cat promised you a meal but did nothing but nap all day. He even invited me to the feast without arranging a thing. And the rat? He offered me a fish-scale shirt but brought no food either. It was I who ate all the oats—but I did not cheat you.”

The woodcutter considered this carefully.

The cat quickly added, “I assumed the rat would prepare a feast, so I invited Francis to dine with us. You could have eaten him, so really, we fulfilled our promises.”

The woodcutter shook his head, kicked the cat outside, chased the rat away with a broom, and turned to Francis. “You seem honest enough. Since the others have gone, would you like what remains of the oats?”

Francis politely declined. “Thank you, sir, but oats are hardly suitable fare for a pheasant.”

With a bow, Francis made his way home, wiser and humbler, ready to rest after his eventful day.

Moral of the Story:
Pride and vanity can lead us astray, but honesty and dignity will always earn respect—even when mistakes are made. True friends show their worth through actions, not just promises.