"What good is a clam?" retorted Mr. Thompson. "You can't open it."
"Can't I, though?" and the crow took the clam in his beak, flew high over the stony beach, and dropped it. The shell cracked, and the crow ate the clam with a relish.
"Look out! here comes a kingbird!"
Suddenly, with an angry cry, a small gray bird swooped down upon them, and making a vigorous peck at Mr. Thompson's eye, dashed off before he could retaliate.
"Come on," cried the old crow: "there is no use of sitting still and getting our eyes picked out."
They flew as rapidly as they could over toward the corn field, the kingbird following them a part of the way. When they reached the field, the crow alighted on the head of a stuffed figure which the farmer had set up for a scarecrow. Mr. Thompson settled on the outstretched arm.
"Yes," said the old crow, as if continuing a previous conversation—"yes, it amuses me to see the way these farmers think to frighten us with their stuffed figures. Now anything that is in motion, like that bunch of feathers over there, really does scare me, for I never know how far it will swing; but the idea of any intelligent crow being frightened at this thing—why, it is preposterous. And then the contemptible way in which they treat us, too—shooting us whenever they have a chance. Now there comes a crowd up the road in a wagon. They won't hurt us; they are afraid to shoot when the horses are around. Hullo! one man is getting out, and, as I live, he has a gun. Let's be off."
But Mr. Thompson got confused, and instead of flying away, he flapped heavily toward the corner of the field, and alighted beside his book. The man with the gun crawled cautiously up to the fence. It was 'Lisha.
"Wa'al, I vow, ef here ain't Mr. Thompson fast asleep!" he muttered. "I'll give him a scare;" and cocking his gun, he discharged it close to Mr. Thompson.
Mr. Thompson jumped up, and looked around savagely. "What are you shooting at?" he demanded, sharply.