a peacock spreading its gorgeous tail mocked a crane that passed by, ridiculing the ashen hue of its plumage and saying, “i am robed, like a king, in gold and purple and all the colors of the rainbow; while you have not a bit of color on your wings.” “true,” replied the crane; “but i soar to the heights of heaven and lift up my voice to the stars, while you walk below, like a cock, among the birds of the dunghill.”

fine feathers don’t make fine birds.