“We help the farmer, but we get no credit for it. We eat many, many grasshoppers and beetles and worms and caterpillars and weevils every year.
“These would be at work destroying the farmer’s crops if we did not eat them. And, for all that, the farmer is always chasing and killing us.”
“No,” said Father Thrift, “the farmer does not dislike you for the good you do. He dislikes you for the harm you do. Your bad habits make you unpopular. Why don’t you give them up?”
“Caw, caw, caw!” cried all the crows. I suppose they meant, “Yes, yes, yes.”
But whether or not they meant what they said I don’t know.
As for the blackbirds, whatever was agreeable to the crows was satisfactory to them. And they flew away singing, “Conk-err-ee! Conk-err-ee!”
And as Father Thrift and Shaggy Bear sat down under a tree to rest, Mr. Robin sang his song from the topmost bough. It was like this:
Cheerily cheer-up! Cheerily cheer-up!
Cheerily cheer, five of us here;
Mother and me, and babies three. Cheer up,