THE SCARECROW
Once upon a time there was an old black crow, as old as the hills. And once there was a scarecrow, brand new to his business. The scarecrow was made of a corn stalk wearing the farmer’s cast-off hat and coat.
The very first day he took up his post in the cornfield, the old black crow, flying over, laughed at his disguise.
“Caw, caw, caw,” she cried,
“I know you, poor old stalk,
Bloodless is your body,
You neither run nor walk.”
The scarecrow kept his temper and said nothing, and this looks as if he were clever. For the old crow had to take herself off without knowing what he was thinking of.
Now the scarecrow was clever. He made friends with Magic Darkness and Moving Wind. He had made up his mind to frighten thieving crows away, no matter how old and knowing they might be. And that very evening when the old black crow, as old as the hills, came flying toward the cornfield, with her five black children after her, he whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.”
And they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together so that he looked exactly as if he were the farmer stooping to load a gun.
When the old black crow saw this, she whispered, “Turn back, children, and don’t speak for your lives;” and although she was as old as the hills, she turned tail as fast as she could, with her five black children after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of an apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, she breathed more freely.
“Oh, my children,” she panted, “it was no cornstalk scarecrow at all; it was the farmer himself, alive and loading his gun for us.”
But when she awoke in the morning light, she felt rather puzzled. “I’ve seen a good many scarecrows in my time,” she said; “I should know a man from a shadow. I’ll go and have a look at him in broad daylight.”
So as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to school to hear how featherless children make crow’s nests with their fingers, she spread her wings for the cornfield where she had seen the brand new scarecrow. There he stood as plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of a blind crow.
“I’m not old enough to be blind yet,” she said; “you’re a dried-up cornstalk if ever there was one. You’ll not frighten me this evening and send me and my children scurrying home.” And she sang mockingly,
“Caw, caw, caw,
I know you, poor old stalk,
Bloodless is your body,
You neither run nor walk.”
But the clever scarecrow kept his temper and answered never a word. So again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.
Well, toward evening along came flying again the old black crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. And again the scarecrow whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.” And they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together, then straightened him suddenly, like this, halfway, and held his arms out in front, one hand beyond the other, so, as if he were searching for the trigger of a gun.
When the old crow saw him she cried, “Turn back, children, at once,” turning herself so suddenly that she bumped into the beak of the first little crow behind her. It was not until she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of the apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and had rested a minute, that she breathed freely.
“Oh, my children,” she said, “without doubt it was no scarecrow; it was the farmer, alive, and placing his finger on the trigger of his gun to shoot us.”
But again when she awoke in the morning light she felt puzzled. “It’s very strange,” she said. “I’ve seen a good many scarecrows in my time. I should know a man from a shadow. I’ll have another look at him in the broad daylight.”
So, as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to school to hear how featherless grown-ups get crow’s feet on their faces, she spread her wings for the cornfield. There stood the scarecrow as plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of a blind crow.
“Well,” she said, “unless blindness is catching and the bats gave it to me, you’re a dried-up corn stalk if ever there was one. If an old crow that was living before you were even thought of knows anything, you’ll not frighten me this evening!” And she sang mockingly,
“Caw, caw, caw,
I know you, poor old stalk,
Bloodless is your body,
You neither run nor walk.”
But the clever scarecrow kept his temper, and answered never a word. So again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.
Well, all good things go in threes, as every child who knows more than a crow can tell you. So the third evening along came flying the old black crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. And the third time he whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.” And the third time they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving Wind bent him sharply down, lifted him halfway with his arms held out, one hand beyond the other, like this; then suddenly straightened him up with arms pointing up at the crows.
“Don’t shoot, dear farmer,” shrieked the old crow. She hadn’t time to turn tail. “My children and I will let your corn alone until you have harvested it.”
Immediately Moving Wind dropped the scarecrow’s armless sleeves and brought his hat back to its position on the top of the stalk. And away flew the old crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of the apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and she had rested two minutes, she said, “My children, keep away from that field until I tell you the corn has been gathered in.”
When the corn was harvested, the old black crow and her five black children went gleaning to pick up the kernels that had dropped, and fat eating they had. And the scarecrow let them enjoy their meal in peace; his duty was done.
—Angela M. Keyes