Intelligence and stupidity do not just wash over us like summer rain; these things are born somewhere deep inside.

The crow had seven sisters. Six of those sisters hated the peacock with vehemence. But the seventh sister, the youngest of all, liked the peacock.

The mean sisters would say: “Off he goes with our brother into the jungle. And he finds out from him where to get the best wood. But that ungrateful beast gets loads four times as big and keeps it all for himself! He doesn’t give us even a single twig.”

Then the youngest sister would answer, “So what?! The poor thing has to carry the wood on his own head. He has to collect the sticks together and set them into manageable, balanced loads… All that takes a lot of hard work. And I doubt you can claim this jungle as your private property.” Well, the peacock used to give the youngest sister wood whenever she needed it. And when he went to her house, she would serve him wonderful dinners, sweet milk, and every so often special breakfasts of rice pudding cake.

One day the peacock was out in the jungle gathering wood when a splinter wedged its way into his foot. The peacock cried out: “Crow! Come quick! Crow! Come quick! There’s a splinter in my foot! Come pull it out!”

The crow heard him yelling and went back to gathering wood.

“Crow!” The peacock called to him once again.

Now the crow had to answer. “Peacock,” he replied in a very curt tone, “you know I have but one eye and can’t see properly. Now do you really expect me to see well enough to get a tiny sliver out with just one poor eye?” He loaded up his wood quickly and flew off.

The peacock paused for one startled moment and then, slowly hopping and hobbling, he made his way to a nearby path and sat down.

Just then a merchant’s wedding procession was passing by. The peacock heaved himself forward and landed in the bullock cart with a thud.