That’s why I want to re-locate up here— I’d love to choke my father, get all his stuff.

But there’s an ancient law among the birds— inscribed in stone on tablets of the storks, “When father stork has raised up all his young, when they are set to fly out of the nest, then young storks must, in their turn, care for him.”

So coming here has been no use, by god,

if I’ve now got to feed my father, too.

No, no. My dear young man, since you came here

in all good faith, I’ll fix you up with wings just like an orphan bird. And I’ll give you some fresh advice—something I learned myself when I was just a lad. Don’t thump your dad.

Take this wing here, and in your other hand hold this spur tight. Think of this crest on top as from a fighting cock. Then stand your guard, go on a march, live on a soldier’s pay—

and let your father live. You like to fight, so fly away to territories in Thrace, and do your fighting there.

By Dionysus, I think the advice you give is good.

I’ll do just what you say.

And now, by Zeus, you’re talking sense.

To Olympus on high with my wings I will fly— With this song I will soar and then sing a few more . . .

This creature needs a whole pile of wings!

For my body and mind know not fear, so I’ll find . . .

Cinesias, welcome. Let me now greet a man as thin as bark on linden trees! Why have you come whirling here on such lame feet?

A bird—that’s what I long to be,

a clear-voice nightingale—that’s me.

Stop singing—just tell me what you want to say.

I want you to give me wings, then float up, flying high into the clouds where I can pluck wind-whirling preludes swept with snow.

You want to get your preludes from the clouds?

But all our skill depends upon the clouds. Our brilliant dithyrambs are made of air— of mist and gleaming murk and wispy wings. You’ll soon see that—once you’ve heard a few.

No, no—I won’t.

Yes, by Hercules, you will. For you I’ll run through all the airs . . .

O you images of birds,

who extend your wings, who tread upon the air, you long-necked birds . . .

All right. Enough!

Soaring upward as I roam. I wander floating on the breeze . . .

By heaven, I’ll stop these blasting winds of yours!

First I head along the highway going down south, but then my body turns towards the windy north, as I slice airy furrows where no harbour lies . . .

[Cinesias has to stop singing because Pisthetairos is tickling him too much with the wings.

He stops running off and singing. He’s somewhat out of breath.]

Old man, that’s a clever trick—pleasant, too— but really clever.

You mean you don’t enjoy being whisked with wings?

Is that the way you treat the man who trains the cyclic choruses— the one whom tribes of men still fight to have?

Would you like to stick around this place to train a chorus here for Leotrophides, made up of flying birds—the swallow tribe?

You’re making fun of me—that’s obvious. But I won’t stop here until I get some wings and I can run through all the airs.

Who are these birds with mottled wing?

[Cinesias has to stop singing because Pisthetairos is tickling him too much with the wings.

He stops running off and singing. He’s somewhat out of breath.]

Old man, that’s a clever trick—pleasant, too— but really clever.

You mean you don’t enjoy being whisked with wings?

Is that the way you treat the man who trains the cyclic choruses— the one whom tribes of men still fight to have?

Would you like to stick around this place to train a chorus here for Leotrophides, made up of flying birds—the swallow tribe?

You’re making fun of me—that’s obvious. But I won’t stop here until I get some wings and I can run through all the airs.

Who are these birds with mottled wing?

They don’t appear to own a thing— O dappled swallow with extended wing . . .

This is no minor problem we’ve stirred up— here comes one more person singing to himself.

O long and dappled wings, I call once more . . .

It seems to me his song’s about his cloak— he needs a lot of swallows to bring in the spring.

Where’s the man who’s handing out the wings

to all who travel here?

He’s standing here. But you should tell me what you need.

Wings, wings. I need wings. Don’t ask me that again.

Do you intend to fly off right away, heading for Pellene?

No, not at all.

I’m a summons server for the islands—

an informer, too . . .

You’re a lucky man to have such a fine profession.

. . . and I hunt around to dig up law suits. That’s why I need wings, to roam around delivering summonses in allied states.

If you’re equipped with wings, will that make you more skilled in serving men?

No. But I’d escape being hurt by pirates. And then I could return home with the cranes, once I’ve swallowed many law suits down to serve as ballast.

Is that what you do for work?

Tell me this—you’re a strong young lad and yet don’t you slander strangers for a living?

What can I do? I never learned to dig.

But, by god, there are other decent jobs,

where a young man like you can earn his way, more honest trades than launching still more law suits.

My good man, don’t keep lecturing me like this. Give me some wings.

I’m giving you some wings—

I’m doing it as I talk to you right now.

How can you put wings on men with words?

With words all men can give themselves their wings.

All men?

Have you never heard in barber shops how fathers always talk of their young sons—

“It’s dreadful the way that Diitrephes’ speech

has given my young lad ambitious wings, so now he wants to race his chariot.” Another says “That boy of mine has wings and flutters over tragedies.”

So with words they’re really given wings?

That what I said. With words our minds are raised—a man can soar. That’s how I want to give you wings—with words, with useful words, so you can change your life and get a lawful occupation.

But I don’t want to.

What will you do?

I’ll not disgrace my folks. Informing—that’s my family’s profession. So give me now some light, fast falcon’s wings— or kestrel’s—then I can serve my papers on those foreigners, lay the charges here, and fly back there again.

Ah, I get it— what you’re saying is that the case is judged before the stranger gets here.

That’s right. You understand exactly what I do.

And then, while he’s travelling here by ship, you fly out there to seize his property.

You’ve said it all. I’ve got to whip around

What will you do?

I’ll not disgrace my folks. Informing—that’s my family’s profession. So give me now some light, fast falcon’s wings— or kestrel’s—then I can serve my papers on those foreigners, lay the charges here, and fly back there again.

Ah, I get it— what you’re saying is that the case is judged before the stranger gets here.

That’s right. You understand exactly what I do.

And then, while he’s travelling here by ship, you fly out there to seize his property.

You’ve said it all. I’ve got to whip around

just like a whirling top.

I understand— a whirling top. Well, here, by god, I’ve got the finest wings. They’re from Corcyra . . . here!

Ouch! That’s a whip you’ve got!

No—a pair of wings. With them I’ll make you spin around all day!

Ow! Help! That hurts!

Wing your way from here! Get lost—I want rid of you, you rascal! I’ll show you legal tricks and twists—sharp ones, too!

Let’s gather up these wings and go inside.

When we fly

just like a whirling top.

I understand— a whirling top. Well, here, by god, I’ve got the finest wings. They’re from Corcyra . . . here!

Ouch! That’s a whip you’ve got!

No—a pair of wings. With them I’ll make you spin around all day!

Ow! Help! That hurts!

Wing your way from here! Get lost—I want rid of you, you rascal! I’ll show you legal tricks and twists—sharp ones, too!

Let’s gather up these wings and go inside.

When we fly