The crane iz neither flesh, beast, nor fowl, but a sad mixtur ov all theze things.
He mopes along the brinks ov kreeks and wet places, looking for sumthing he haz lost.
He haz a long bill, long wings, long legs, and iz long all over.
He iz born ov one egg and goes thru life az lonesum az a lasts year’s bird’s nest.
He livs upon lizzards and frogs, and picks up things with hiz bill az he would with a pair ov tongs.
He sleeps standing like a gide board, and sumtimes tips over in hiz dreams, and then hiz bill enters the ground like a pik ax.
When he flies thru the the air, he iz az graceful az a windmill, broke loose from its fastenings.
Cranes are not very plenty in this world, but the supply, up tew this date, just about equals the demand.
The crane iz not a good bird for diet; the meat tastes like injun rubber stretched tight over a clothes hoss.
I never hav et enny crane, nor don’t mean to, untill all the biled owl in the country givs out.