The Sparrow and the Drenched Monkey

In a certain forest a pair of sparrows had woven their nest on a long branch of a shami tree, and they lived there in comfort.

The rains came. One day it poured. A monkey came and sat under that tree — soaked through, shaking with cold, teeth chattering, body drawn in on itself, a wretched sight.

The hen sparrow, snug in her nest, looked down at him and could not help herself: "Sir! You have hands and feet, you look almost like a man — why have you never built yourself a house? Why sit there soaked and shivering?"

The monkey burned with rage: "You needle-beaked, evil-minded, pandit-talking creature! Why can you not hold your tongue?" And he thought: "She lectures me from her comfortable seat. That nest is where her pride lives."

The sparrow did not stop. She went on: "What is your wit worth? One should speak only to a person of faith, and especially to one who asks. To tell a faithless fool anything is like weeping in a wilderness."

Filled with fury, the monkey climbed the tree and tore that nest into a hundred pieces. The house from which she had been dispensing advice was simply no longer there.

So it is said: to instruct one who is unfit for instruction is to set fire to your own home.

उपदेशो न दातव्यो यादृशे तादृशे जने । पश्य वानरमूर्खेण सुगृही निर्गृहीकृतः ॥

Moral: Advice is not to be given to just any sort of person — see how one foolish monkey left a well-housed bird with no house at all.

From the Panchatantra, Book I — The Loss of Friends.