The garden birds were having another argument about which of them was the most beautiful. The robin started it. “I am patently the most beautiful,” he proclaimed. “I am an icon: the blush of my red breast is an inspiration to artists and brings joy to all in the pale of winter.”

The wren did not agree. It was form that counted, not a daub of colour. Form was eternal, she opined, and her form was perfect, from the needle-tip of her beak through the arc of the belly to the angle of the upright tail. “Have you seen my tail?” she asked. “Irresistible.”

“Your tail is nice, I admit,” conceded the peacock, who had strayed from the nearby manor. “But cannot compare to the glory of my exquisite plumage.” With complacent ceremony, he unfurled his tail. The birds fell silent, intimidated by the ‘eyes’ of gold and tangerine and blue.

“Ha! You may look fine strutting on the paving stones, but when you try to fly—ugh, what a catastrophe!” the blackbird countered. “A bird should be the full package: spry, well-formed, and gifted with song. For beauty, my friends, moves through the air as a melody.”

The blackbird attempted to show off his melodic finesse, as he did every day at that hour, but the objections of the other birds drowned him out. His argument was ludicrous, they said. He was plain. Ordinary. One colour, apart from a yellow beak. A pleasant voice wasn’t enough.

By now the sun had set and, in the last of the light, a bat swerved across the garden. “I can settle this for you,” it said. “I’ve heard your representations and am in the best position to pronounce on who is the most beautiful.” “Yes,” the birds replied. “We are listening.”

“It’s me,” the bat declared as he flitted above their heads. “I am the most beautiful.” This answer provoked outrage and consternation, as you can imagine. “What nonsense!” cried the birds. “You’re barely more than a shadow. If you’re so beautiful, why don’t you show yourself?”

“Because I only come out at night,” the bat explained. “My beauty is so remarkable, so eye-catching, it is not safe for me to go about in daylight. I would be an easy target for predators and the envious alike.” “And you expect us to take your word for it,” replied the birds.

“Believe what you will,” the bat answered. “I’ll believe it when I see it,” said the blackbird. “Reveal yourself tomorrow, at dawn. If you are as remarkable as you say you are, we’ll consider the matter settled.” “Just this once,” the bat agreed. “You won’t be disappointed.”

The bat came first thing the next morning. It clung to roof of the shed so the birds—even the peacock—could view its beauty. But the birds recoiled in disgust. “Is this a joke?” they cried. “You are hideous. Repulsive. No wonder you hide in the dark. You’re not even a bird!”

“You silly half-witted beasts,” the bat replied. “You talk of beauty, but cannot think beyond yourselves. You are blind.” The bat intended this as its parting shot and, in a way, it was: a hawk hunting for breakfast spied the creature, seized it in its talons, and carried it off.

“See, I was right,” cried the bat, as the garden birds scattered. “I told you I wasn’t safe.”

© Richard Parkin, 2022