A Hermit's Wild Friends; or, Eighteen Years in the Woods

by Mason Augustus Walton

While I admire his ability to look out for number one, I do not believe that he is in any way beneficial to the farmer. In my opinion, he is a great deal blacker than he is painted by our wise men at Washington. After a lifetime knowledge of the crow, with ten years' close observation of his habits, I have nothing to say in his favor.

KINGBIRD.

While farming in Maine I was a sworn enemy of the crow. Not because he pulled up my corn, thinned out my barley, and carried off my chickens; these things I could provide against; I was his enemy because he robbed birds' nests by the wholesale. It did not take me long to find out that this black imp prevented the increase of song-birds in cultivated fields and the adjoining woodlands.

I brought with me my hatred of the crow when I dropped into the woods of Cape Ann, and for several years I made life miserable for his kind with trap and shotgun.

Ten years ago, influenced by the articles in Forest and Stream on game protection, I laid aside my gun and devoted more time to the study of the wild things. The crows got the benefit of this change. I should have continued my warfare if the crows had plundered the birds' nests in my vicinity. King-birds nested near my cabin, and during the nesting-season crows and hawks were very careful to give the locality a wide berth. At other times the king-birds did not go far from home to attack the crows, and the latter made themselves at home in my dooryard, after I had ceased to persecute them.

Crows possess a language which enables them to communicate to each other anything that relates to crow-life. They can hold long confabs, and then act intelligently from evident conclusions.

In the years when I lived happily with my shotgun, before a divorce was decreed, I planted a bushel of potatoes in the woods on the west side of Magnolia Swamp. Fire had cleared the side-hill, and the prospect of a crop was good.

The crows gathered in some dead trees, out of gunshot, to criticize my work, and seemed to be highly elated. Raw potatoes are not down on the crow bill of fare, so I thought there would be a great disappointment when they investigated my work. The second day after I had finished planting I visited the spot, and found that the crows had dug up every hill on the south half of the field. There were three pieces of potato beside each hill, so the crows did not dig them up for food. Why they did so much hard work for nothing was beyond my knowledge of crow-life. I nearly surrounded the other half of the field with white cotton string, and retired to the swamp to await the crows. Twenty minutes later a sentinel crow winged his way to a dead tree on the hill, and, after looking for enemies, called out, "Caw, caw, caw." Immediately eight crows appeared. They held a consultation, and it seems they decided that it was a good time to dig up the rest of my potatoes, for they started for the spot where they had left off. As this part of the field was under a high ledge, the crows could not see the string until they had passed the brow of the hill. The first crow over saw the string, and nearly turned a somersault in trying to stop his speed. He called out, "Cur-cur-cur. Cur-cur-cur," and instantly every crow returned to the tree. For ten minutes a great confab took place. The crow that had discovered the string was eagerly questioned by the others, and replied in a hasty and excited manner. After talking it over, a crow flew to the south end of the field, where he could look to the north and see the string. He turned and reported. Another crow flew to the north end of the field and stationed himself in a tall pine-tree. This crow soon discovered that the string did not surround the whole field; there was a wide gap in front of the pine-tree. He called "Caw-caw-caw-caw-caw," and the crows flew down to the tree. They were told about the gap, and one crow boldly flew through and acted as sentinel from a tree in the potato-field. The other crows soon followed, and began digging up the seed-potatoes. I think they tasted of every piece, with the idea that somewhere I had planted something good to eat. I shot two of the crows and hung them in the potato-field, but a week later I found the seeds dug up, with the exception of a few hills beneath the string.