Grasshopper rubbed his feet in displeasure. This was a convention for herbivores, and he was not permitted.
“Your not a pure herbivore. You eat insects at night.”
“Rubbish, that would be my cousins, the crickets.”
“All the same.”
Just his luck that they post a donkey at the entrance.
“Not the same. Whose in charge?” he demanded.
“Well, Mr. Huge Elephant, I suppose, or perhaps Mr. Bison or Mrs. Camel. But your too tiny to interest the likes of them.”
Right then he spotted Mr. Elephant. Before Donkey could stop him, he leapt onto the elephant’s head, where he started rubbing his feet and wings together to make that awful chick-chick-chick.
“Stop it,” roared Elephant.
“Not until you let all the herbivores in, irrespective of species, size or colour.”
“Let him in,” permitted Elephant, helpless before his sensitive hearing.
And that is how Grasshopper got his bright yellow dignitary flower.