A riot of commotion rent the air; the birds were waging war.
No songbirds, these, that waken hearts to love with melodies as bright as springtime leaves—but vultures, birds with cutting claws and crafty beaks.
The cause of their dispute was a dead dog.
I lack the breath to give each gruesome detail of the fight; perhaps it will suffice to say, without exaggeration, that the skies rained blood. Uncounted were the leaders slain, uncountable the heroes. Valiancy, dexterity, surprises, tricks—they used them all. Their exploits were inspiring—not their deaths. Inflamed with wrath, the armies spared no effort to annihilate each other, and soon it seemed the underworld would burst with fallen soldiers.
The compassion of another race of birds was stirred by all this fury, all this waste. The pigeons, with their true and tender hearts, resolved to quell this quarrel. They elected diplomats to mediate; and so successful were they that a treaty soon was signed.
Alas! the peace was at the cost of those who’d made it. Now the vultures, reconciled, attacked the pigeons, slaughtering in country and in town, till fields and streets alike were steeped in crimson carnage.
Poor, unhappy birds! whose only sin was to conciliate villains.
Refrain, dear peaceful people, from imposing peace on warful people, or the warful will impose on you their war.