Autumn morning on the wide river, and the tide was out. On the pale sandbar, white with kash grass, Clam lay open in the sun — and inside her shell glowed her one great treasure, a pearl. Far down the sand, on long stilt legs, hungry Crane went stalking for his breakfast.
Crane spotted that soft open shell. Breakfast! Down he swooped — PECK! And SNAP — Clam slammed shut on his long bill, tight as stone. “Led go!” mumbled Crane. “Shan't!” said Clam.
Crane pulled. Clam gripped. “No rain today, no rain tomorrow,” Crane hissed, “and you'll dry to a chip on this sand, Clam!” “I won't let go today, I won't let go tomorrow,” said Clam through her shell, “and you'll go hungry, Crane!” Neither would give in. Not an inch.
The sun rolled west. Still they tugged, and still they gripped — far too busy quarrelling to look up even once. So neither of them saw what you can see: a fisherman with his net, wading closer and closer across the shallows.
The fisherman could hardly believe his luck. A crane and a clam, holding each other still as a knot! “Two stubborn ones for the price of one!” he laughed — and scoop, into his basket they went. The lid came down. Clack.
Inside, the dark. One thin ribbon of moonlight slid through the woven cane. For a long while nobody spoke. Then Clam whispered, “Your bill… does it hurt?” — and let go. Crane hung his head. “I pecked first,” he said softly. “Forgive me, sister.”
At first light the basket thumped down beside the fisherman's hut — and now the two moved as one. Clam wedged her hard shell into the weave; Crane's long bill levered at the lid. Creak — OPEN! Crane caught her up in his feet and flew — splash! — home to the river. Only the pearl stayed behind, rolling in the bottom of the basket.
Morning found them side by side on their own sandbar, counting the waves. Clam's shell stood open — empty now. The pearl never came back. She sighed a small sigh, and Crane said gently, “Remember this, sister: when two quarrel, both lose — and a stranger walks away with the prize.”