‘I have had a good meal for once in my life, and am full fed,’ said the crow, when the last of the pasty was eaten; and he perched on a stone, starred with stonecrop, and fluffed out all the feathers he possessed, and looked with a comical expression at Jim.
‘I am better fed than little St. Neot after his poor little meal of fish,’ he continued, still eyeing the boy, ‘and I am feeling so comfortable that I am inclined for a chat.’
‘Are you?’ cried Jim, who thought this great black crow was a wonderful crow, which he certainly was. ‘I don’t know what to yarn about.’
‘I do, then,’ answered the bird quickly. ‘I suppose you have heard the old whiddle[1] how the little St. Neot put the poor crows into this pound.’
‘Yes, I have heard about it from the Granfer men and Grannie women here at Churchtown,’ said Jim, turning his face towards a little village close to the church which he could just see from where he was sitting. ‘But they never made much of a story of it.’
‘Didn’t they? Then perhaps you would like to hear the crows’ version of the old tale,’ said the crow. ‘It will tell you that their morals were not so black as the farmers in this parish made out to the Holy Man.’
‘I don’t mind, if you are quick about it,’ said Jim. ‘I am going to a farm with my father to help him do some thatching when he has finished his dinner.’
‘I cannot be driven after such a heavy meal of pasty,’ croaked the crow; ‘and if I may not take my time, I won’t tell it at all.’
‘Perhaps you would like to hear the crows’ version of the tale?’