THE WISE OLD CROW
Not all the people know
The wisdom of the Crow:
As they see him come and go,
With verdict brief,
They say, “You thief!”
And wish him only woe.
That he’s selfish we admit,
But he has a lot of grit,
And on favour not a bit
Does he depend;
Without a friend,
He must live by mother-wit.
The Crow is rather shy,
With a very watchful eye
For danger coming nigh,
And any one
Who bears a gun
He’s pretty sure to spy.
The clever farmer’s plan
Is to make a sort of ban,
By stuffing clothes with bran,
Topped with a tile
Of ancient style,
—A funny old scarecrow man.
The Crow looks on with scorn,
And early in the morn
Pulls up the farmer’s corn:
He laughs at that,
The queer old hat,
Of the scarecrow man forlorn.
—Garrett Newkirk, in Bird-Lore.
XI
THE FLIGHT OF THE BIRD
How do Birds find their Way?[[1]]
(Told at Foxes Corners School)
“I was telling Grand’ther about how far away the birds go in the winter, and how they fly against the lighthouses and get killed,” said Tommy Todd, “and he said I couldn’t tell him anything about their going away and coming back, ’cause he’d seen that going on, boy and man, these seventy years. Grand’ther knows how the same kind of birds come back to the place every spring, ’cause he says there were Phœbe Birds had a nest on the end beam of the cowshed over where the last cow stands,—way back when he was learning to milk. Then when that old shed blew down, and they built a new one like it, back the birds came, and they are coming yet; first nest over Black Bess, and second nest way out over the box-pen where the little calves live.
“What Grand’ther wants to know is how they find the way to go so far, and how they know where to stop and find something to eat, and if they get hungry, ’cause he says nobody seems to know just what they do between times, and what people do tell seems like Jack-and-the-Beanstalk fairy-stories, and he said maybe you had some book that told about it so’s you could explain.”
Gray Lady smiled in a half-puzzled way, as Tommy spoke, for the questions that the children asked often gave her as much cause for study and wonder as the stories that she told them. She was finding out that there were three or four members of the Kind Hearts’ Club who had been seeing correctly and trying to think out things for themselves before they had a chance to ask questions, or had any books to consult.
“Your grandfather’s question cannot be answered in a few words,” she said, “neither is there any one book that tells everything about these wonderful journeys, because, as yet, not the very wisest of the Wise Men know it all, though they wait and watch, and every spring and fall many of them are scattered through the country upon the course of the flying birds to watch them as they pass.
“All the information that they collect is printed and kept as evidence of what is known, a little here and a little there, until we hope some day that the history will be complete, when it will be one of the most wonderful stories in the world, for even the little we know sounds like a fairy-tale.
“Of course,” continued Gray Lady, “I know very little from my own sight, but I will tell you what I have learned of the Wise Men, who believe it to be the truth. I had intended telling you about Owls and Hawks to-day, as I promised you last week, when we saw the Screech Owl up in the orchard, but that story can wait until the next time you visit Birdland, for the Owls are still about; there are pictures of them in the library, and others that are stuffed and mounted in the glass case in the hall.
“All that we need, or that can help us with the story of the bird on its travels, is that large map of North and South America, for this will be a geography, as well as a bird, lesson.
(A fine map of the western hemisphere having been the first thing that Gray Lady had given Miss Wilde for the use of the school at Foxes Corners, the little old one being out of date and indistinct.)
“Clary, you may take charge of the pointer to-day and sit here by me, for this will be a rather long lesson, and you will need help with the binding of your iron-holder, for I’m afraid if you draw the stitches so very tight it will pucker and not lie flat and smooth like the model that Ann Hughes made.
“And what work has Jacob given you boys for your penknives to do?”
“Wooden spoons out of white wood,” answered Dave, “big strong ones such as’ll beat up cake and apple-sauce, and, when they’re shaped, we are to smooth them down fine with sandpaper. I’m going to give mine to my mother; she broke hers yesterday, the handle snapped right in two. She says the bought spoons are sawn out crossgrain, any which way. There was an old man who used to come down from the charcoal camp with wooden spoons and butter-scoops and hickory baskets, and he sold lots of ’em all through the town, but he died last winter.”
“Then surely wooden spoons and butter-scoops will be very good things for the Kind Hearts’ Club to make for its Christmas sale, and we shall be interfering with nobody, for that is one of the things that we must remember when we are working for charity, not to make articles for sale that shall interfere with others who make them to get an honest living, for that sort of thing is a species of robbery in disguise.