Bayard Taylor
Wood-Folk Talk
By J. ALLISON ATWOOD
THE CROW
WHAT does the crow say? The syllable “caw” repeated several times? I thought you would say that. A tradition is hard to break; but just listen for yourself sometime, and you will be convinced that the crow has been sadly misunderstood. It is “Hawk, Hawk, Hawk,” just as plainly as one could wish.
Of course, you wonder why one bird should spend all his time calling out the name of another. Well, that’s just what I want to tell you about.
It was a long time ago—before any white people had invaded Birdland. The year had been unusually mild and all the birds had returned from the south where they spent the winter. So great was the rejoicing because of the early season that the king had sent invitations far and wide to a spring reception.
Then what an excitement! For weeks nothing was discussed but the reception and new spring plumages.
When the day arrived, birds from tree-top and meadow came by the score—waders, climbers, perchers—in fact, all kinds under the sun. The table, which, by the way, very closely resembled the ground, was festooned and hung with arbutus. Before each guest was a relish—a dainty little worm, served upon an equally exquisite plate of shellbark. But why torment ourselves with the “bill o’ fare”? Sufficient to say that it was worthy of the occasion.
At the head of the table sat the king himself, a sturdy little fellow, nicely dressed in black and white, and wearing a concealed crown of gold on his head. One of the remarkable things about the king was that he did not flaunt his royalty before his subjects. Whenever he wore his crown he always concealed it under a cap of feathers, and trusted that his actions would speak his worth.