As soon as he stopped, she sprang nimbly from the phaeton among half-a-dozen flushed and excited boys who had stones in their hands. Up in the tall trees above them were dozens of crows, which were cawing in a loud and distressed manner, and flying restlessly from branch to branch. A stone thrown by some boy with too true an aim had brought a fine young crow to the ground.
"Ha—I've got him. Thought I'd bring him down!" yelled a lad, triumphantly. "Now give it to him, boys."
The stones flew thick and fast at the poor crow. My grandmother screamed and waved her hands, but the boys would not listen to her until she rushed to the phaeton, seized the whip, and began smartly slashing those bad boys about the legs.
"Hi—stop that—you hurt! Here, some of you fellows take the whip from her!" cried the boys, dancing like wild Indians around my grandmother.
"Cowards!" she said; "if you must fight, why don't you attack something your own size?"
The boys slunk away, and she picked up the crow. One of its wings was broken, and its body was badly bruised. She wrapped the poor bleeding thing in our lap-robe, and told George to drive home.
"Another pet, grandmother?" I asked.
"Yes, Elizabeth," she returned, "if it lives." She had already eight canaries, some tame snakes, a pair of doves, an old dog, white mice and rats, and a tortoise.
When we got home, she examined the crow's injuries, then sponged his body with water, and decided that his wing was so badly broken that it would have to be amputated. I held his head and feet while she performed the surgical operation, and he squawked most dismally. When it was over, she offered him bread and milk, which he did not seem able to eat until she pushed the food down his throat with her slim little fingers. Then he opened and closed his beak repeatedly, like a person smacking his lips.
"He may recover," she said, with delight; "now, where is he to sleep? Come into the garden, Elizabeth."