What relation can there be between the books in a bookshelf and the reeds in a swamp? "None," you might say. I don't know. If you look at it from the viewpoint of the little heron there is a very clear affinity. Endless days and nights the little heron had been travelling from the depths of Africa to reach temperate latitudes. He had crossed the Sahara Desert and the Mediterranean. He was exhausted. Perhaps it was storms and high winds that had made his lose his way. At any rate here he was at night in Kolonaki, in the heart of Athens. Flying over the television aerials and between the apartment blocks - with the motor-cars roaring and screeching in the streets below, and unsuspecting people sipping their coffee and drinks - he was looking around desperately for some familiar sign, for somewhere to hide at least. Suddenly, through an open window, he saw what he was looking for! At last, somewhere to get the necessary rest, to recover his strength and continue on his journey. Mr XYZ, tenant of the apartment in question, had gone out of his house for a few minutes, leaving it open for the spring breeze to freshen the rooms. Before going to bed he had decided to go over to his big bookshelf to choose a book to read in bed. Somewhere between the philosophical essays and the Russian novelists he saw a beautiful statuette in the shape of a bird. "Now where did that come from?" he wondered. "I don't remember where I got it, or how and when. But isn't it attractive?" He got thinking, scratching his head and racking his brains to try and remember something about the statuette on his bookshelf. But all his efforts were vain. Finally he came to the conclusion that since the next day was his birthday, obviously his brother must have left it there as a surprise for him. "That's it! Let's go up and take a closer look at it and after that I'll telephone him to thank him," he decided at last. The little heron had sense danger from the moment he heard the creaking of the door. Sure enough, he then saw a person come in. So he froze, next to the books that he had thought were reeds, and he pretended to be a reed himself, with his neck stretched out and his elongated beak pointing at the ceiling. "These are strange reeds," he thought. "They're a bit short - how can one hide in them?" The only movement he made was to turn his body imperceptibly to follow the movements of the intruder. If his enemy came within striking distance, he was more than ready to give him a shock. Full of admiration for his new item of property, Mr. XYZ approached the bookshelf. But when he took off his glasses (for he was short-sighted) to get a better look at it from close up, he had the peculiar feeling that the statuette was watching him. Its eyes, strangely lively although completely motionless, appeared to have him under observation "Can it be….?" he just had time to wonder before the neck of the statuette lashed out and struck him in the right eye, because as is well-known, all herons aim at the eyes of their prey or their enemy. Mr. XYZ was putting eye drops on his eye for all the next week. The little heron, who had done this to him, was transported in a cardboard box to his destination: a real swamp with real reeds.