JACK-A-DANDY.
BY HELEN WHITNEY CLARK.
We children had been wishing for a tame crow ever since reading Dickens’ charming description of his pet raven. There were no ravens where we lived; but Brother Tom said crows were just as good, and could be taught to talk, too.
And one day, when we were playing “Here we go round the mulberry bush” in the woods near the house, little Ikey, our colored washerwoman’s boy, came along with a live crow in his hands.
Of course we were curious to see and examine the wonderful bird, and we crowded around Ikey, who seemed bewildered at being the object of so much attention.
“Where did you get him?” “What you going to do with him?” “How much will you take for him?” asked Tom, Josie and Fred, in one breath.
But Ikey only grinned, as he answered each in turn.
“Got him out of his nest in a post-oak. Dey was more of ’em, but I couldn’t git ony dis one. I’m a-gwine to raise him if mammy’ll let me. But I mout sell him, if I git a good chance.”
The opportunity was not to be lost, and in a very few moments Ikey was trudging homeward with a handful of coppers and two nickels—all the change we could raise among us, and we proudly carried our new-found treasure to the house.
“Mercy on us!” cried mamma, holding up her hands. “What on earth have you got there?”
“A crow,” we told her. “And we’re going to tame him, and teach him to talk.”
“Nonsense!” said mamma. “You don’t suppose I’ll have a crow about the house, to kill the young chickens and eat up the eggs!”
But we begged and pleaded, till at last she gave her consent to let us keep it.
“It’ll be a great torment,” grumbled grandma. “It’s a young bird, and you’ll have to feed it like a baby.”
But we did not mind the trouble. Indeed, it was more of an amusement to us to feed our pet on scraps of meat and bits of bread. It opened its mouth so wide, and cried “Caw-aw-aw!” in such a satisfactory way.
Ikey had instructed us as to the manner of feeding.
“Jess you peck it on de head, an’ it’ll open its mouth like it does fur de ole birds,” he explained.
And we found his advice was good.
We named our pet “Jack-a-Dandy,” and he grew and throve so much that he was soon able to procure his own food, which consisted of crickets and other insects.
He was so tame that we could allow him perfect freedom, without any fear of his deserting us.
As he grew older, he used frequently to fly into the top of a tall post-oak near the front door, from which he would circle around and around the house, then alight on the ground, and come hopping in the door, with a cheerful “caw! caw!” as if asserting that there was no place like home.
“He’s better than Dick Hardy’s tame squirrel,” Tom used to say, “for that has to be kept in a cage.”
“And Bob Rooney’s pet coon has to be fastened by a chain,” said Josie. “But Jack-a-Dandy is as free as we are.”
But mamma was not particularly pleased with Jack, and grandma continued to grumble over his misdemeanors, especially when he would rummage in her work-basket, and carry off her silver thimble or bright steel bodkin.
“He’s a troublesome creature,” she would declare, “and if I had my way, he’d get his neck wrung.”
But we kept a good watch on our favorite, to keep him from getting into mischief.
We had used our best endeavors to teach him to talk, but he was a poor scholar, and could not even learn to pronounce his own name.
Still we loved him, and continued to take his part against his enemies.
Papa had never said much, one way or the other, about Jack, though he was not very favorably disposed toward the race of crows. But when the spring planting was done, he took sides with the opposition.
“If your tame thief pulls up my corn, I’ll shoot him,” he declared.
“If he troubles the young chickens, he’ll have to go,” said mamma.
“If he spoils my garden, I’ll wring his neck,” asserted grandma.
And, as may be imagined, we suffered considerable anxiety about our pet.
“BEFORE PAPA COULD SEIZE HIS GUN AND REACH THE SCENE OF CONFLICT,
JACK-A-DANDY HAD FLOWN TO THE HEN’S ASSISTANCE.”
One day we were eating dinner, while Jack sat perched on the post-oak near the door.
Suddenly a terrible commotion occurred in the chicken-yard, caused by a hawk which had swooped down and seized a young chicken.
The hen-mother, however, attacked the marauder so furiously that it was unable to carry off its prey immediately, and before papa could seize his gun and reach the scene of conflict, Jack-a-Dandy had flown to the hen’s assistance.
He attacked the hawk so desperately that it dropped its prey, and a terrible combat ensued, in which Jack came off the victor. But not satisfied with this, he pursued the flying enemy a long distance, attacking him sharply when occasion offered.
You may be sure we had a great many praises and a sumptuous dinner for our favorite, on his return.
Hawks had for years been a great pest to poultry raising, and even mamma espoused Jack’s cause after his successful battle with the rapacious foe.
And during Jack’s life, not another chicken was molested by the hawks, as he kept a vigilant watch, and attacked every one that dared to venture near the premises.
He even won the good-will of papa, by keeping rigidly aloof from the corn-field; but grandma was still fearful lest he might do some damage to the garden.
She was very careful of her early vegetables, and the garden-spot was paled in, to keep the chickens and rabbits from making depredations on the early lettuce, peas and cabbages.
But no fence would keep Jack out. Like the wind, he went “wherever he listeth.”
Much to our relief, however, he did not offer to molest the vegetables, but did good service in picking up the insects and cut-worms, which are usually such a pest about a garden.
When he fell to devouring the squash-bugs, which were sapping the life of the “Boston Marrows,” grandma’s last prejudice was overcome, and she declared that Jack was worth his weight in gold.
After that, she never went to the garden without calling Jack, who would give an answering “caw!” and hop gravely after her, or perch on her shoulder with all the confidence of a privileged favorite.
As long as he lived, Jack continued to grow in the good opinion of the household. But, alas! he could not live forever.
One day he sat drooping on his perch, and refused to be enticed away from it. He even declined the plump crickets Fred offered him in hopes of tempting his appetite.
The next morning he was found dead under his perch. He was mourned sincerely by the whole family, from grandma down, and we buried him with great ceremony under his favorite post-oak.
Tom sodded his grave, Josie planted a “mourning bride” over it, and Fred put up a shingle for a headstone, with this verse on it, which we all thought very beautiful:
“Handy-spandy, Jack-a-Dandy
Loves plum-cake and sugar candy.”
[This Story began in No. 15.]