He was so tame that we could allow him perfect freedom, without any fear of his deserting us.
As he grew older, he used frequently to fly into the top of a tall post-oak near the front door, from which he would circle around and around the house, then alight on the ground, and come hopping in the door, with a cheerful “caw! caw!” as if asserting that there was no place like home.
“He’s better than Dick Hardy’s tame squirrel,” Tom used to say, “for that has to be kept in a cage.”
“And Bob Rooney’s pet coon has to be fastened by a chain,” said Josie. “But Jack-a-Dandy is as free as we are.”
But mamma was not particularly pleased with Jack, and grandma continued to grumble over his misdemeanors, especially when he would rummage in her work-basket, and carry off her silver thimble or bright steel bodkin.
“He’s a troublesome creature,” she would declare, “and if I had my way, he’d get his neck wrung.”
But we kept a good watch on our favorite, to keep him from getting into mischief.
We had used our best endeavors to teach him to talk, but he was a poor scholar, and could not even learn to pronounce his own name.
Still we loved him, and continued to take his part against his enemies.
Papa had never said much, one way or the other, about Jack, though he was not very favorably disposed toward the race of crows. But when the spring planting was done, he took sides with the opposition.