Note: The characters mentioned in my story are not owned by me. By the way, I don't know what sounds birds make besides "chirp" or "squawk", so if you could please help me by posting...that would be appreciated.

"I know why the caged bird sings." - Maya Angelou

July 13, XXXX 12:45 P.M.

The warm sunlight of summer shone through the windows of France's house. France could feel a light sheen of sweat trickling down his forehead as he wrote. He was composing a message for his dear ami Spain.

After about ten or so minutes, France sealed the paper with some tape and opened the window beside his desk. He whistled a few notes before a small yellow bird appeared on the windowsill.

"Pierre, be a good little bird and deliver this to Spain," France cooed as he tied the message around the bird's right leg with a thin bow.

Pierre flapped its wings in a manner resembling impatience.

"Ah, my sweet Pierre. What a hard worker you are... I think it's about time for you to get a reward!"

France gave an affectionate peck at Pierre.

"Now go, my sweet!"

With a beat of its bright yellow wings, the bird took off with the message in hand...or claw.

France smiled, looking at the retreating figure. After he could not see Pierre anymore, France went to his house's garden. Roses of every color greeted him as he approached. Other Pierres flew about the garden lazily.

The French man swiftly walked over to the bunch of red roses. He did not even glance in the directions of the ones that were not colored red. He knew that they were well off and taken care of, because after all, he was the one who tended them. And anybody in their right mind, knew that Francis Bonnefoy was the best horticulturist there ever was in the world.

But even the best had problems from time to time.

They're still not red enough... thought Francis sadly.

And indeed they weren't, the red roses looked sickly pale, as if the red had been "sucked" out of them. France could not figure out the reason for this.

"What if they continue to grow like this?" France mumbled. "What will become of the red roses? What will become of my status as the most romantic country if I don't even have red roses? Will some upstart take my place? Haaah haaah...non non non, I shouldn't think like this, it will influence the roses. I must stay calm...breathe Francis...breathe! Okay...okay...got to water them first...water...water..."

The Frenchman ran off to the shed where he kept all of his gardening equipment. He did not notice that a certain Pierre was watching him from above. This Pierre was the eighteenth one he owned.

Pierre #18 sensed a certain sadness emanating from France.

"Chirp chirp?" ("What's wrong with him?" - translated by the awesome bird-whisperer Prussia) Pierre #18 asked the other birds in the garden.

"Chirp chirrrp," ("Probably worried 'bout something,") replied Pierre #7.

Pierre #18 flapped its wings in frustration. "Squawk! Sq-squawk?" ("I know that! But why?")

"Chirp chir..." ("Don't know...") Pierre #7 admitted.

Fed up with #7's response, Pierre #18 flew off to another tree. The small creature asked all the other birds, but came up with the same kind of answers that #7 gave.

Shortly after, France arrived with a watering can in his hand. #18 noticed his prescence and flew over to perch on his left shoulder.

"Hm? Oh, it's you Pierre. What a sweet thing you are. Ah...mmm...these roses haven't been doing well. I don't think I can make it in time..."

France let out a long sigh, then proceeded to water the problematic roses. The waves of sadness emanating from France earlier were nothing compared to the despair Pierre #18 was experiencing now.

It shuddered and busied itself with grooming its feathers.

France looked at it and smiled faintly. "Ah...I apologize, Pierre. I'm worrying you aren't I? Hmm, I'm alright now. I'm fine..."

He turned his attention to the roses and did not continue the conversation any further. Pierre #18 also turned to look at the roses.

The grayish-white pallor gave Pierre #18 an idea. It flew away from France to the garden's bird bath. A symphony of different bird calls greeted Pierre as it descended into the cool water.

"Chirp...chirp chirp..." ("Hello, everyone... I need to tell you guys something...") #18 said slowly.

The majority of the birds cocked their heads, questioningly.

"Chirp, chirp chirp chirp! Chirp chirrup! Chirp...chir.." ("He, the Man is not happy, and...and I'm sure that's it because of the roses! So, So! I think I should ask...ask the...c-cat for help...") said Pierre #18.

"SQUAAAAWWWWKKKKK?" ("WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?") replied all of the birds.

"Sq-Squawk? Squawk squawk squawk! Squawk squaaaawk?" ("Are you stupid? That stupid cat would never listen to you! It only sees you as food! FOOD! Don't you understand that?") cried Pierre #24.

"Chirp chirp! Chirp chirp chirp chirp!" ("Yes, yes! What Pierre is saying is very true, you should not approach the cat!") said Pierre #12.

All of the fowls in the fountain nodded and agreed that the cat was not to be interacted with.

"Chirp chirp...chirp chirp..chiiiirp chiiiruup..." ("The advice won't be of any use...I've already made up my mind...I just came to let you all know...") Pierre #18 said firmly.

Pierre #18, unlike the other birds, was fully aware of how much more time the Man spent with his cat when he was not with his that bit of knowledge, it presumed that the cat would have a good idea of how to cheer up the Man.

#18 splashed a few times in the bird bath, before flying off to the Man and the cat's house.

July 13, XXXX 1:17 P.M.

Another Note: Ami is "friend" in French and 'tis tres tristes means "'tis very sad". Also, this story is based off a fave fairytale of mine, can you tell which one it is? If you guess right, you'll get an honorable mention in the last chapter and a cookie! -shot-