There was once an old man, who had lost his wife years before. His two sons and single daughter had long left the village, and lived in the big town nearby. The last time all were together was at his wife's funeral. The old man secretly thought that his children were drawing straws, because even at Christmas there was never more than one at a time to visit him.
The old man had long accepted this, and was glad that he wanted for nothing. His small house-which seemed so painfully big after his wife's death- was paid off, and he took care of it. His pride and joy though, was the garden.

It certainly was no model garden, and no magazine would ever feature it. But after breakfast the old man spent hours in a lazy chair under a little canopy savouring the apple tree and the flowers which changed with the seasons. The unchewable crusts of breakfasts' bread were always for the birds, and twittering little sparrows swooped down to fight over them.

The neighbour's tabby cat was interested in the sparrows, and had taken to visiting the old man's garden after breakfast. It would find warm spot in the sun, curl up and sleep until the sparrows woke it. Its ears would scan the garden and when the sparrows were bouncing through the air and arguing over the bread the feline body would stretch and take position behind a yellow sandstone rock.

The old man had seen this many times, most sparrows would swoop down for an easy bite but never touch the ground, afraid of the cat. These sparrows remained hungry. And the old man often wondered why they stuck around his garden, for the bread they would not eat for fear day after day? Long ago there had been a silly sparrow which gorged itself on the ground, only to be eaten by the cat.

But one little sparrow was different from the flock. The old man could never make up his mind whether it was a very stupid bird, or a very cunning one. For this sparrow would land next to a crust, start to pick at it only to fly away when the cat pounced. This happened day after day.

The old man often mused about these two. 'If I were a bird, I'd use my wings to swoop and dive and fly and see the whole wide world! I would refuse to hop on the grass, just to nibble at a crust!' And the cat was no better he thought: 'If I were a cat, I'd purr with my tail over my nose in a warm sunny spot until the neighbours' daughter fed me!' The old man thought it odd, that he, clearly so much more intelligent, could not fathom bird and cat.

For many years he wondered about this. His eyes grew dim, but his ears always brought his vision back when he heard the bounding cat and the flurry of wings. And only when his cough grew worse, and he lay in fevers in the hospice did the answer come to him: Cats should not feed from tins and birds should not eat crusts. In his little garden, two creatures needed each other to remind them of who they were.

The old man was happy, and died with a smile. The family was together at the funeral once more.