The eagle and the owl, embracing, called a truce, each swearing never more to eat the other’s young.
“But will you recognize mine?” asked the owl. “You are the king of birds, but kings, like gods, distinguish little, I’m afraid.”
“Describe them,” said the eagle, “or display them to me. Then I’ll never touch a feather on their heads.”
The owl produced with doting words a portrait. “They’re as cute as baby buds,” he said. “Adorable as innocence itself! You can’t mistake them. Just remember: they’re the prettiest and sweetest little birdlings in the world.”
One day the owl had left the nest to hunt for food when, flying by, the eagle chanced to spot a brood of what appeared to him repulsive, sullen, squawking monsters.
“Those,” he reasoned, “cannot be my friend the owl’s. Though uglier than homemade puke, they will, I bet, be good to eat.”
He ate them.
When the owl returned, he found that nothing but their precious little feet remained.
He grieving wept, and keening begged the gods for retribution.
One replied, “You’ve but yourself to blame: the picture that you painted wasn’t very accurate. But after all, that’s only nature’s law: each creature finds the fellow members of its species shapely, fair, and worthy love.”