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.