Chapter III: Part 3

I saw a terrible quarrel once, between Bismarck and a Blue Jay who raided his bakery. When it was over, Bismarck had four pecks on his body and one peck of feathers for his nest. The Bird immediately started south, though it is not common for this species to travel in the altogether. He was naked and very much cast down—in fact, the bluest jay I ever saw.

One day I did something for Kitchi-Kitchi which won her eternal gratitude. We had gone fishing together, as we often did, and she sat upon the gunwale of my canoe, sorely tempted to rock the boat, but obedient to my expressed command not to. Presently, by gestures, she made me understand that she was thirsty. I dipped up a cup of water from the lake on which we were rowing and offered it to her, but she put it aside with disgust. So I put a little brandy from my flask into the water and offered it to her again. She was indignant and scolded me violently—her language was positively scurrilous. When we landed she still insisted that she was thirsty, and, at my wits’ end, I drew some of the sap from a tree for her and offered it to her in the cup.

She drank every drop and whisked about madly to express her joy. She nibbled at my ears and put her cool nose into my neck, then tried to tickle me under the chin with her paw, making a noise, meanwhile, that sounded like “Kitchi-Kitchi.” It was unpleasant, but I understood the spirit of it and forgave the means.

The same afternoon, she led her admirers a pretty chase. Fleet as they were, Kitchi-Kitchi was more fleet. Nothing except Atalanta or an automobile gone wild could run as she did that afternoon. I had previously wished I knew the Squirrel language, and now I saw that in order to converse intelligently with Kitchi-Kitchi, I must learn Russian. Finally, in a bacchanalian frenzy of action, she ran to the top of a lofty oak and prepared to jump to the next, folding her tail daintily about her as a fine lady does her skirts at a muddy crossing.

Meeko screamed in terror and Bismarck fainted, but Kitchi-Kitchi made the jump safely with several inches to spare. After that, whenever she wanted to bring them to terms, she took the high jump. The scheme always worked, but it was a terrible leap, even for a Flying Squirrel,—fully twenty feet,—and Kitchi-Kitchi had no wings except her youthful spirits and her bounding energy. Many a time have I seen her upon a lofty branch, swinging by one hand, and waving the other at Meeko in a tree close by. He was fain to follow her, but she was always about four trees ahead.

Never have I seen the sweet influence of woman more beautifully exemplified. When she was with them, Bismarck and Meeko treated one another like long-lost brothers. The three took many a promenade together, arm in arm, Kitchi-Kitchi folding her tail over the hollow of her elbow as though it were a train. When she went away for her afternoon nap, or to gather some choice morsels for her evening meal, they invariably fought.

I kept court-plaster and bandages on hand to repair the damage that was always done on such occasions, and Kitchi-Kitchi never appeared to notice it except once. When Bismarck called upon her with a blood-stained bandage tied over one eye, she shrieked and kicked him outdoors. He fell to the ground like a dead weight, I suppose because his heart was so heavy—but fortunately was not injured further. Meeko had her to himself for a week after that, then Bismarck, the bandage gone, resumed his place at her side and upheld his right to it in many a scrimmage.

The two vied with each other in bringing dainties to tempt her appetite. Robins’ eggs, with the top part of the shell removed, all ready for sucking, mushrooms, nuts, berries, apple seeds, pop-corn, and the thousand other choice bits her educated palate was accustomed to, were laid at the door of her nest, high in the branches. It was Meeko who accidentally brought her a poisonous mushroom which made her so ill that for days her life was despaired of. She forgave him, however, and used to sit in the sun, very thin and pale, with two devoted attendants to wait upon her.

Naturalists who think that Squirrels eat Birds are very much mistaken. I have seen Meeko pounce on a wayfaring Bird hundreds of times, but curiosity has always been the motive. They will not eat Bird unless it is properly cooked. I know, for I have tried them with bits of a raw Crow, that had died from natural causes. The fact that Birds are not afraid of Squirrels triumphantly proves my theory, in spite of the fact that the eggs are occasionally taken out of the nest. Whenever a Squirrel has visited a Bird’s nest, after the young were hatched, curiosity and friendly interest in the welfare of the young have been the sole reasons in every case.

Meantime, my fame as a tickler had spread abroad, and I used to give up hours to it each day. I might better have spent the time in writing, but it was so noisy that I could not write, except to make hasty notes in my note-book, and I was there to study Natural History. An old grey Squirrel from the next county brought her entire family of young for me to tickle, and when I refused, she bit one of my ears until the blood came in a bright red stream. Bismarck drove her away and Kitchi-Kitchi stanched the bleeding with a bit of Rabbit fur she brought from the woods for the purpose.

Kitchi-Kitchi was devotedly attached to me. She would stop eating a nut any time to scamper down the tree-trunk and perch upon my arm or shoulder. She would sit upon my shoulder while I performed my manifold household duties, and would occasionally precede the broom, sweeping the floor with her tail. She would stay in my cabin long after I had told her to go home, and when I put her out, she would return by way of the window or chimney, cross the room, climb me, and put her head down between my collar and neck, barking meanwhile unless I spoke to her, stroked her, or tickled her. It used to give me an uncanny feeling when she ran up my spine while I was writing in my ledger—in other words, the climate disagreed with me.

It fell to my lot this Summer to hear a Squirrel singing a duet with itself. It sounds as though the voice were split, the high part coming through the nose, and the low tones through the throat. It is always a lively tune, perfectly rhythmical, interspersed with gales and gusts and cyclones of very human laughter. It is not generally known that Squirrels sing, but Little Brothers of the Woods can find out a great deal if they only give their minds to it and buy plenty of books.

At length, I missed Kitchi-Kitchi, and my heart grew sick with foreboding. I feared lest one of those terrible tragedies of the woods had taken place and my little friend’s life had thus been sacrificed. The end of a wild animal is always a tragedy—the pitiless law of the wilderness, supported by claw and tooth and fang, has so ordained.

Meeko and Bismarck were as usual, except that they carried a great many nuts and mushrooms up one particular tree. Determined to find out, I climbed, and there on her nest, pale and worn with the long vigil, but still cheerful, sat Kitchi-Kitchi.

She would not let me lift her, protesting loudly when I tried it, but when I tickled her in the ribs she moved enough to give me a glimpse of the eggs under her. Very few observers have ever seen a Squirrel’s egg. They are about the size of a Turkey’s egg, a dark brown in colour, with a long, handle-like projection, fully as long as the egg itself, at the wider end. This undoubtedly holds the tail of the baby Squirrel.

Six weeks later she came down—a mere shadow of her former self. In three weeks more, the babies were able to come also, and they made a pretty group, playing in my dooryard and falling over themselves at every step, not yet having learned how to manage their tails. I would have tickled them, gladly, but I already had my hands full and I did not wish the new generation to acquire the habit.

Things went on as usual until late in the Fall. Summer lingered long that year, and the woods were a golden glory almost until November, but the Birds had gone and the Squirrels were making ready to follow.

One morning there was a great chattering, and I was so sure that preparations for departure had begun that I gave up my work entirely and went out to investigate. A few moments of close, quiet observation proved my hasty surmise correct.

From every conceivable corner were brought large, flat chips. They were fully six inches square and much worn, as if they had been used often. A depression in the centre was the only variation from the flat surface.

Such a time as there was! The woods seemed to be one solid Squirrel in multitudinous attitudes. The scene would have been very perplexing to any but a perfectly sober man, and at intervals I even doubted the evidence of my own senses.

The older and larger Squirrels dragged all the chips to the brink of the river, which flowed from north to south, and then, at last, I began to understand. So poor are our weak wits in comparison with the denizens of wood and field, whom, in our pitiable self-conceit, we call “the lower animals.” A Squirrel is normally a much higher animal than any of us, excepting only the tree-dwellers on the Orinoco.

Some of the chips were fastened together with strands of wild-grape vine, and were heavily laden with nuts and corn. Others were passenger boats and sailed proudly alone. The young ones were put on the chips before they were launched, and screamed in terror as the little craft slid into the current.

The commissary fleet, in charge of an old grey Squirrel, who was perfectly calm, was launched first, then the chips bearing the small fry. The passenger boats were last to go, and the travellers swam out into the stream to catch them. One grey Squirrel missed his boat entirely and was drowned. It came ashore four miles farther down and I still have it among my most-prized possessions.

As long as I live, I shall never forget that sight. The day was glorious, with never a hint of frost in the air, and the woods, strangely silent, now that the Little People were gone, echoed and re-echoed when a nut dropped on the fallen leaves.

Down the stream sailed the Squirrel fleet—brave little mariners, these, with tails proudly spread to catch each favouring wind. Bismarck did a wonder of navigation, tacking repeatedly and coming up beside Kitchi-Kitchi under full sail. Meeko was stationed at her other side and his boat went at exactly the same speed as hers. Close together, as married lovers down the stream of life, the three sailed, with the family of young ones on a large chip just ahead, where the anxious mother could keep an eye upon them.

I stood watching for over an hour. The current was swift and bore them away all too soon, but with my powerful field-glass I kept them in sight until the tears blinded me and I had to wipe my eyes.

The only way to make an animal’s story untragic is to finish before you reach the end, so I shall leave them here—that little company of fur-clad, bright-eyed captains, making the long journey southward before the frost should come. Far down the stream was a bend, where the fleet turned, and even with the field-glass I could not see around a corner, so with one last lingering look and a deep sigh, I gave it up.

But a glimmer caught my eye, and, trembling with excitement, I raised my glass once more, fixing it upon the bend of the river, where the last boat was just rounding the curve.

Was it fancy, or did Kitchi-Kitchi stand up, wave her hand at me, and across the boundless waste of waters that lay between us, send me a parting smile?

JIM CROW

I always called him that because he was so dark and because I have no race prejudice whatever. People used to allude to him as my Crow, but the real truth lay much deeper than that. If there was any idea of possession in our somewhat singular relationship, I was Jim’s—he was not in the least mine.

He adopted me one day at sight. I was walking through a pasture about fourteen miles from my cabin, when I saw Jim sitting upon a rail fence. He did not move at my approach, and I thought he must be a stuffed animal, put out to dry by some taxidermist in the neighbourhood. I walked up to him and, at length, stroked his head gently. At this, he opened his eyes, yawned, and with a sleepy “_Caw-w-w-w_,” perched upon my shoulder and so rode home with me, in spite of my protests.

To this day I have never been able to solve the mystery. I examined him carefully for signs of damage, but to all intents and purposes he was sound in wind and limb, free from pink-eye, string-halt, or glanders, and not afraid of automobile or steam roller.

He ate plentifully of the simple meal I cooked over my camp-fire, and, while I washed the dishes, followed me around like a devoted dog. I suppose he must have recognised me as a Little Brother of the Woods—at any rate, he stuck to me closer than a brother while our strange attachment lasted.

When I perceived that Jim had no intention of leaving the cabin, I went outside, shook him off my shoulder, and ran back, closing the door gently but firmly. Imagine my surprise to hear a loud, jubilant “Caw!” from the rafters. Jim had anticipated me, and had flown in—when, I did not know. Three times this was repeated. At last, I thrust my head and shoulders through the window and remained there some time, enjoying the landscape and the Summer moonlight. Jim, still on my coat collar, finally went to sleep, and this time I easily dislodged him, then quickly closed the window with a triumphant bang.

Outside, everything was suspiciously still, and I began to wonder whether or not Jim had taken offence and left me for good. I was still meditating when there was a crash of glass, and Jim, having broken the window, joined me with every evidence of pleasure. I saw plainly that I must make the best of a bad bargain for the night, and the next day, or as soon as possible, put crowbars on all the windows of the cabin.

I retired, but not to sleep. Jim followed me into my cot, stretched himself full length on my pillow, and put his cold, clammy feet on my cheek. When I moved, Jim flopped. When I turned over, burying my face in the pillow, Jim sat on my head, scratching constantly. I tried to put a bit of the sheet between us, but it was useless. Presently, Jim slept, as his snoring unmistakably proclaimed, but as soon as I moved, he woke and resentfully pecked at my face.

So I lay there, miserably enough, until dawn. Jim woke of his own accord, took away his feet, which were warm by this time, yawned, stretched himself, and demanded breakfast. I took my time about preparing the meal, but Jim made such a racket with his caws of complaint that I determined to be more prompt in future.

That day I barred up all the windows, and at night, after two hours of strategy that would have done credit to the commanding general of an army, I found myself in the cabin, with doors and windows locked, and Jim on the outside.

He tried all the windows, but my barriers held. It was suffocatingly close in the cabin, but I knew that the chimney would furnish a draft and keep me from being poisoned by the impure air. Then a terrible thought struck me—suppose Jim should come in by the chimney route, as Kitchi-Kitchi and her friends were wont to do, and, sooty though he was, insist upon sleeping with me!

This did not occur to him, however, or perhaps he knew a better way. He made night so unspeakably hideous with his loud and vociferous calling, his vicious pecks at the glass, and the beating of his wings against the door, that at last, in sheer desperation, I got up and let him in.

I slept the sleep of utter exhaustion that night—with Jim’s feet on my cheek. As the weeks went by, I got used to it, though it was never pleasant. We can get used to almost anything, if we have to.

I tried to find consolation in Jim’s cunning tricks, of which he had a great many. A Crow is about the most intelligent wild beast I have ever come across, and, after study, becomes fascinating. It added a pleasantly human element to my solitude in the wilderness, for Jim was as unexpected, as unreasonable, and as incomprehensible as a woman.

When I planted my garden, he watched me, and afterward he dug up the seeds and ate them. By way of atonement, he brought me some crocus bulbs from somebody’s else garden. I was never able to find out where they came from and so I could not return them.

He made deep excavations into my potato hills and ate the eyes out of the potatoes, passing by the Bugs, which I could never induce him to touch. He would eat the Worms I gathered to go fishing with, and afterward would caw repeatedly, with bated breath. Mosquitoes, Flies, Potato-Bugs—all these he disdained, but he would eat anything which he could eat without being of indirect use to anybody. I discovered later that after he had gorged himself with the eyes of the potatoes, so that he could not hold so much as another eyelash, he would keep on digging until he was exhausted, merely to make a nuisance of himself.

I stretched a white cotton string across my dooryard, between two trees, and taught Jim to jump over it, turning a double somersault in mid-air. Some choice tidbit rewarded him for this, and he got so that whenever he was hungry, between meals, he would run up to an imaginary string, take the flying leap, turning the double somersault before he touched ground again, and walk up to me, cawing loudly with pleasure in his performance. I always praised him, and sometimes stroked his head or back, whereupon he would demand the tidbit, which was generally forthcoming. Sometimes it was a bit of raw bacon, a small dish of pork and beans, or a cold pancake, liberally sweetened with molasses.

On one of these occasions, Jim broke his leg. While turning the somersault he missed his calculation by a hair’s-breadth, and caught a claw on the string, which happened to be a little heavier than usual. He fell heavily to the ground with a yell of pain which brought me instantly to his side, but he would not let me touch him. Whenever I reached forth my hand, he gave a cry of alarm which warned me very effectually to keep away.

Half flying, half walking on the other foot, he made his way to the river bank, where he took some soft clay from the edge of the water and with his bill made a little mound of it. Then, by the same methods of locomotion, he went away a short distance and gathered some grass of a particularly tough variety. All the time he was seemingly oblivious of me, though I was close by and, as the reader may well imagine, watching him intently.

Returning to the river bank with a liberal supply of the grass, he first washed the broken leg thoroughly in the stream. Then he smeared the broken place with soft clay, working fibres of grass into it meanwhile, then more clay, grass, and so on in distinct layers until the enlargement was about the size of a butternut. All the time he was pale, but very brave.

It took him fifteen minutes by my jewelled repeater to set the leg. Afterward, for exactly one hour, he sat under an overhanging shrub with the injured member stretched out in front of him. His eyes were closed but his face wore an expression of great suffering. At the end of the hour, which must have been agony to him, he fluttered up into the nearest tree, and with great effort sawed off a small branch which had just the proper crotch. He stripped this of its leaves, put the crotch under his wing, and with this improvised crutch, went back to the cabin.

He lay down on my pillow unrebuked, and I brought him a cup of water to moisten his parched lips. He gave me a thirsty peck, then drank eagerly. Poor Jim! That night, and indeed many a night afterward, my calloused cheek missed one of the firm, small feet to which it had become accustomed.

He used the crutch constantly, and every day he examined his leg with an expression of deep personal concern upon his dark countenance. Its progress seemed to satisfy him and at the proper time he took off the clay cast. The leg seemed as good as ever, though a little stiff, but I could never get Jim to jump over the string again. He seemed afraid of it and shared the same fear regarding anything white. Waving my handkerchief at him would frequently drive him away from me for hours together, and thus I gained time to write, and to put down in my observation ledger priceless records, made on the spot, of the great and glorious panorama of wild life which was passing under my gifted eyes.

Naturally, I was proud of my pet. When I returned to the city, however, and resumed my researches in the library, I learned that this method of setting a fractured limb was well known among the Birds. One of the new books on Natural History described at great length the setting of a Woodcock’s leg by the same means, the operation having taken place under the writer’s own eyes. The only difference was that the Woodcock used no crutch. I learned, further, that hunters often shot Woodcock, Grouse, Snipe, and Quail who had been repaired in the same way. To many of these Birds remnants of the clay casts still clung; others bore only slight evidences of the fracture, which, in knitting, became perfectly smooth.

“Put the crotch under his wing, and with this improvised crutch, went
back to the cabin.”]

Every one knows how a Chicken’s leg is sometimes broken, and, in healing, is twisted to one side. This, of course, refers to very young Chickens. I have seldom had one on my own plate whose leg could have been broken by anything short of a butcher’s cleaver. The legs of fliers and the wings of walkers are choice morsels, but of the legs of walkers and the wings of fliers, the less said the better, and the more polite when at the table.

To return, not to our mutton, as the French have it, but to our Crow, as the politicians say.

Jim had a great many friends among his own race, and after they learned not to be afraid of me, they used to call upon him at stated intervals. Often I have gone out in the morning and found my dooryard black with Crows holding a caucus. Some Unnaturalists have it that every Crow is an independent caucus, but I am not prepared to make any positive statements on this point.

It was by watching these assemblies that I learned the Crow language. Every student of Natural History admits that Crows have a way of talking to each other and making themselves understood. It has remained for me, however, to tabulate these utterances in suitable lists, and by the same method pursued by Champollion with the Rosetta Stone, together with the system of cipher-solving elucidated in _The Gold Bug_, arrive at the inner meaning of their language.

A few keen-eyed Little Brothers of the Woods, working independently, have discovered with me that _caw_ is only one syllable of a somewhat complicated speech. They often say _ker-ker_, _ah-ah_, _cluck-cluck_, _haw-haw_, and _ha-ha_, making in addition several other sounds which are difficult to describe adequately in print.

I took the precaution to use a phonograph, and thus secure exact records. The entire subject, treated scientifically, and at the proper scientific length, will be found in my volume published last year, under the title: _The Nature, Habits, and Language of the Crow Indians, as Seen by a Scientific Observer Cooped up by Them on Their Reservation: Together with Exhausting Notes Concerning Their Songs, Ballads, Dramas, Customs, and Crafts_.

My publishers thought the title was a little too long, but I pointed out to them that many scientific works have even longer titles, and that when anybody pays two dollars for a book, it is with the expectation of securing two dollars’ worth of language.

Not to weary the reader with details, and to interest the general public in the more expensive book, I transcribe below a few of the more prominent words of the Crow language.

_Caw_—Has as many uses as the Latin verb _fero_, and the precise meaning depends largely upon the tone of utterance. In a loud, clear, cheerful tone, it means, as nearly as can be expressed: “Good morning, Carrie.”

_Caw_—Fortissimo, means: “Man. Might be dangerous. Keep sharp lookout.”

_Caw-Caw_—In sharp, imperious accents, means: “Man has gun. Fly the coop.”

_Caw-Caw_—In a tone of contempt, means: “Gun is only umbrella. Stay where you are.”

_Haw_—“Horse in off field very sick. Watch.”

_Haw-Haw_—“Donkey instead of horse. Wouldn’t that jar you?”

_Ker_, naturally, means “dog.” _Ker-Ker_ means two dogs. _Haw-Ker_ means travelling salesman or man practising music.

_Ha-Ha_ indicates laughter, as all through the brute creation.

_Cluck_ means Chicken, _Cluck-Cluck_ two Chickens. Two Crows together indicate a Rooster.

_Ah-Ah_ shows deep astonishment, mingled with pain.

_Ker-Cluck_, from its root derivation, would mean _Dog-Chicken_. In other words, a lower form of Chicken, something which is smaller and equally edible. Also, onomatopoetically, a Frog.

_Caw-Ker_ means the best thing of its kind, whatever it may be. Students of philology will note the resemblance to an Aryan word still common among the lower orders of English-speaking peoples.

_Ah-Ker_ means a sore place. Example, a broken leg or aching tooth.

It will be seen that the language is very condensed and in a few syllables may epitomise an entire conversation. For instance:

“_Caw. Caw-Caw. Haw. Ker-Ker. Haw-Haw. Cluck-Cluck. Caw-Ker._” Freely translated, this runs as follows: “Good morning! How do you find yourself this morning? Don’t get excited, that two-legged thing is only a Man with an umbrella. There is a sick Horse in yonder field that I have my weather eye on, also a dead Donkey. Two Dogs are watching, and there are a couple of nice Chickens that appear to be spring broilers, trotting peacefully around the farmyard. The Horse is a Donkey, too; wouldn’t that make you sick? Nevertheless, those two Chickens are corkers and I intend to have them before my feathers turn white with old age and theirs fall out for the same reason.”

From this brief instruction, the intelligent reader will be able to translate the Crow language. Just here, perhaps, I ought to mention the fact that I gave Jim an anæsthetic one day and slit his tongue, hoping that he could speak English. Some of our words, as is well known, are tongue-twisters. Whether it was to spite me or not, I shall never know, but I record the painful fact that Jim never learned any English except my last name. Whenever I did anything that displeased him, he would shriek out “SITDOWN!” in a loud, compelling tone that I invariably and instinctively obeyed. Then, with a merry laugh, he would flutter off over the trees to tell his friends about it.

When a Crow sings, it reminds you of a cornet half full of molasses. They only sing when they are courting, which is extremely fortunate. If I were a lady Crow, wooed with song, I should take vows of eternal celibacy. They may not be saddest when they sing, but other people are.

I shot one of them one day, when they were doing too much singing, and the rest of the company called an indignation meeting on the spot. Having decided that I was the criminal, they sentenced me to have my eyes pecked out and appointed six of their number as executioners. Happily, I had on my spectacles, and when they had broken and eaten the lenses, they were satisfied. That night six more Crows died in great agony from the eating of broken glass. They did not molest me further, but buried their dead comrades with great pomp and ceremony.

Very few observers have ever seen a Crow funeral, but it fell to my lot to be present at this one. It was a bright moonlight night and I crouched behind a stump in a pasture lot, partly screened by the undergrowth that had sprung up around it, and had an unobstructed view of the entire affair.

Sometime during the day, a long, transverse trench had been dug and lined with leaves. The seven corpses, feet upward, were lying on burdock leaves at a distance of about seventeen feet from the trench. A long stem was left on each burdock leaf, and to it was tied a long, stout string which shone whitely in the moonlight. I did not know what it was for, then, but later I understood.

Seven of the oldest and most prominent Crows, at a given signal, advanced to the dead. Each one took the end of a string in his beak and stepped over it in such a way that the cord passed straight under his body. I noted with a thrill of pride that Jim was in the lead.

The rest of the Crows were in tiers a little to the left. At another signal, Jim and his followers began to march, to a low mournful tune produced by the other Crows, swaying their bodies in time to it. In my note-book I hastily jotted it down. It went like this: “_Caw-Caw, Caw-Caw, Caw-Caw, Caw-Caw_,” the first syllable of each foot being heavily accented. It was not until they reached the third measure, which, I noted, had eight feet instead of four, that it dawned upon me that they were marching to the solemn and beautifully appropriate measures of Poe’s wonderful poem, _The Raven_. It was so touching that the tears blinded me, and when I could see again, the procession was well under way.

Shall I ever forget it, I wonder—those stately marchers convoying their dead? Each one of the seven Birds was drawing a large burdock leaf, on which lay the remains of his dead friend. When they reached the trench, the bodies were all laid in, in an orderly row, covered with burdock leaves and then with earth.

The simple ceremony over, they dispersed, silently and solemnly, but it set me to thinking and wondering if, after all, man had any right to kill the lower animals for any reason whatsoever. I was brought, also, to a new comprehension of the law of compensation. I had lost a pair of spectacles, and, in return, I had speedily witnessed another spectacle which was indeed wonderful and which set me upon a lofty height, far above my fellow-observers.

It was a day or two before Jim came back to me. He had a strand of black yarn tied around his left leg which he would not suffer me to touch, and which, at the end of the thirtieth day, he removed of his own accord. For a week or more he was sad, then he gradually chirked up and began to act more like himself. He ate Thrushes’ eggs, tweaked wool off the backs of the farmers’ Sheep, and stole countless small articles out of my cabin.

I came upon his hoard one day in a hollow tree which had been struck by lightning and broken off about eight feet above the ground. He had pebbles, clam shells, strings, my diamond scarf-pin, a bit of the mica from the front door of my stove, two pieces of broken glass, a square of blue glass I had brought to observe an eclipse with, a blue-bottle Fly, a piece of resin, some bits of bright coloured wool, the handle of a china cup, a cordial glass, a choice collection of white Rabbit fur, which he was evidently saving for his nest, and, vanity of vanities! a triangular piece of broken looking-glass, which was carefully laid across the top of the collection. It was the sunlight playing upon this which led me to the spot. I took out my diamond pin and the cordial glass, leaving the other things undisturbed, but the next time I investigated, there was nothing there. He had moved his treasures to some safer place.

Jim Crow had peculiar notions about his eating, being especially fond of ’possum, sweet potatoes, watermelon, fried Chicken, corn bread, corn fritters, and molasses. Seeing that his tastes ran that way, I baked some Johnny-cake on purpose for him. He pecked at it politely, but truth compels me to record the fact that it was very hard—almost too difficult for solution.

At length he took a large piece in his bill, having chiselled it away from the main formation, and flew away slowly. He could not go fast, for the bread was not light, save in colour. Wondering, and quickening my footsteps to a run, I followed him to the river. He selected a place where the current was swift, hovered over it a moment, then dropped the bread squarely in.

I was hurt—I do not deny it, but later developments showed me that I had no reason for it and that Jim had sufficient cause for his action. Keeping his eye on the bread, which, to my surprise, floated, Jim flew down stream, cawing loudly. With nice calculation, as it afterward proved, he sat down on the bank at exactly the right place and waited.

In a few minutes, the bread came ashore, soft and palatable. Jim ate it with great relish, then, seeing me peering at him through the shrubbery, he distinctly laughed, and flew back home again. When I got there, he had soaked the rest of the bread in a pan of milk which I had left in an exposed position, and was finishing up with molasses.

He did a great many things which at first puzzled me, but which I afterward understood. I had taken down his perch, which was merely a branch nailed across one corner of the cabin, thinking to get a fresh one the next time I went out. Days passed, and I forgot it, but Jim called my attention to it in rather a curious way.

I had been fishing one afternoon, returning about five o’clock with a fine string of Fish which I intended to cook for supper. Jim lit on one of them and refused to budge. I picked him up and he pecked my hand so severely that I was glad to put him down. He let me take the other Fish without protest, but camped on this one until bedtime, cawing loudly at intervals of three minutes or less. When at last he flew in to take his accustomed place on my pillow, I picked up the Fish to see if I could solve the mystery, and, in an instant, my quick, active mind began to work. The Fish was a Perch—the only one I had caught—and Jim was doing his best, in his poor weak way, to remind me of my shameful neglect.

The brilliant Bird had his reward, and, that very night, before I slept, I fixed his new perch across his old corner of the cabin. Jim watched me, with something very like a smile upon his face, making sleepy caws of gratitude all the time I was at work. When I went to bed, he tickled my face playfully with his tail and caressed me with his beak, to show his appreciation.

We slept that night as we always did, with Jim’s feet high on my cheek. I did not mind it then, but long afterward, when I went back among the haunts of men, and discovered deep crow’s feet around my eyes, I wished that I had broken him of the habit by any method, no matter how desperate. It added years to my age and made it practically impossible for me to get a position in a telegraph office. Fortunately age does not affect literature. After a man is dead, he may continue in the business and often rank higher than his living competitors. Mr. Plato and Mr. Shakespeare are still formidable rivals of the industrious knights and ladies of the pen.

My knowledge of Jim’s epicurean tastes came about in a strange way. I was preparing our simple repast one noon, when I felt the rush of wings over my head. Before I had time to look up, something dropped with a splash into the pan of bacon I was frying and then, from a distant branch, Jim laughed gleefully.

He had dropped a young Rooster, which he had just killed, into my hot grease. He had made some attempt to take off the feathers but it was not successful, and I removed it, to Jim’s great disgust.

He talked so much and so long that I finally lost track of it, but I had the main idea. He had killed the Rooster not only for the fried Chicken, but to satisfy a personal grudge. I judged from Jim’s remarks, that this young Rooster had crowed over him long enough and had come, by a swift vengeance, to an ignominious end.

We had the Chicken the next day, fried, with bacon and corn fritters, and it was not half bad—rather less than a quarter, I should say, which was all I could expect, since I had no ice and was obliged to keep it over night in a warm climate.

One other observer has found that Crows play games with each other, but he has not specified the games. I have fully tabulated these and have found striking resemblances to the games of children. Personally, with my own eyes, I have seen a flock of Crows playing “Follow the Leader,” “Puss in the Corner,” “London Bridge,” “Tag,” “Prisoner’s Base,” and “Drop the Handkerchief.” The handkerchief was a bit of white wool unwillingly contributed by some Sheep, a ball of hair from a Hare or Rabbit, or a compact cluster of feathers from someone who had been called down.

Early in the Summer, Jim moulted. It was pathetic to see him going about without his clothing, and I made him a red flannel jacket, such as the kind ladies in _Cranford_ made for the Cow who fell into the lime. The jacket and a good hair tonic, rubbed in thoroughly about every other day, put him well in advance of the season, and long before the other Crows had their new clothes, Jim was strutting about in the full glory of his, as proud as a Peacock and fully as impertinent. He always cherished the red flannel jacket. It hung from his perch for a while, where I was not allowed to touch it, and then he flew off into the woods with it, to pack it away, I suppose, with his other treasures.

It grieves me to the heart to write of the end of Jim, that brave, gay, mischievous Bird, who shared my bed and board for a Summer, and then met the universal fate of the wild. The end of a wild animal is always a tragedy and the only way to avoid writing tragedy is either to stop long before you get through, or not to begin. I cannot stop before I get through, on account of a habit I contracted when I was writing for the magazines at a cent a word, and, moreover, I need the royalty on this book. A big book can be sold for more than a little one, every time. If you don’t believe me, go and price a dictionary. The cheaper books are merely a part of the dictionary arranged in another order.

Hitherto, I have failed to mention the fact that Jim was married. I knew nothing of it until he was also a parent, and I never knew how much of a parent he was, for he was singularly uncommunicative on the subject and his nest was upon an inaccessible height. He stole an empty bottle out of my cabin and kept it in a crotch of a tree near by, with the cork which belonged to it tied to the neck by a string. Jim was a cautious Bird. On nights when I left the pan of milk outdoors, Jim would not sleep with me. When I discovered this, I set myself to figure out the connection.

I left the pan of milk in an open space in the yard one bright moonlight night, and, as I half expected, Jim refused to share my pillow. I went to bed as usual, but in a few minutes got up and watched him from a secluded position.

He walked around the pan of milk a few times, cawing under his breath in an important, businesslike way, then flew off for the bottle. He returned with it, and filled it from the pan, using his beak for the purpose, and tilting the pan with his foot when the milk got shallow.

When the bottle was full, he pounded in the cork, grasped it in his claws, and flew away with it towards his nest. I surmised then that Jim was so much of a parent that Mrs. Jim did not have milk enough for all the little ones, and the husband and father was compelled to forage for the balance. Deeply touched, I left a large can of malted milk tablets on the window-sill, open. Within two days, they were all gone.

It was Hoot-Mon, the great Owl, who put an end to Jim. Between the Owls and the Crows there is lifelong enmity. An Owl will attack a Crow at night and a Crow will attack an Owl in the daytime. I knew Hoot-Mon, of course—every Little Brother of the Woods knows Hoot-Mon,—but an article on him had not as yet been ordered, and so I made no special study of him.

It was my fault, too. After Jim was asleep, I put the pan of milk outside for fear it would sour. When he woke and missed it, he scratched my face violently. Trembling with rage, I put him out, saying, as I did so: “You miserable, low-down, black beast, I wish I might never see you again!”

Unexpectedly my wish was granted. In my dooryard, in the morning, when the blood-red sun rose out of the mists of dawn, I found poor Jim, torn and mangled and irretrievably dead, lying beside the empty milk-pan.

He had been slain by Hoot-Mon, who, after eating as much as he could, had sailed away with beak and claws dripping, to wait for darkness and further feasting.

Even if Jim had not been so very dead I could not have saved him, for, in the words of a rival Unnaturalist, “there are no hospitals for sick Crows.”

Poor Jim Crow! Time has softened your misdemeanours with its kindly touch and my memory of you is a pleasant one!

HOOP-LA

When you meet a Fox, there are nine surprises. Five of them are his and the other four are yours. You may be looking for him, but he is not looking for you; consequently, he is more surprised than you are.

The following Summer, when I went to my cabin, I found it occupied. By this time I should have been accustomed to such things, but, strangely enough, I was not. To make it worse, the new occupant was not one I could turn out, being a relation. He had been a distant relation hitherto, but was now a near one.

Our family has intermarried a great deal with the descendants of European royalties, and Uncle Antonio was of the great and well-known family of the Cæsars, who, if my readers will remember, used to rank high in Rome. The line of descent was somewhat blurred, it is true, but Uncle had a Roman nose and was given to roaming about the country.

By profession, he was a musician—one of those rarely talented people whose genius is infinitely above such minor details as technique. Rubenstein, according to his biographers, used to make bad mistakes in reading his own music, and nearly everyone who has played him has, at some time or other, followed in his gifted footsteps.

Uncle was another Rubenstein, as regards the mistakes. His soul, lifted above all mundane things, soared to meet the thought of the composer, and his fingers stumbled over the keys. This would not have bothered some people, but Uncle was sensitive and it annoyed him, so at length he had an instrument especially made to suit his own needs.

It was an organ of the regulation type, small and compact, yet with a glorious volume of tone that would have delighted Wagner. Connected with the interior by a wonderfully scientific system of levers, was the motive power. The superior form of the instrument made possible some changes in the manner of playing it.

Instead of pushing on the keys, in the ordinary, common way, my Uncle’s organ was played with a rotary sweep of the whole arm, the hand, meanwhile, firmly grasping the lever. This enabled him to put more expression into the music. I would like to say right here that my Uncle’s organ was invented long before the day of patent piano-players, and that we, as a family, have about decided to prosecute the makers of these cheap, clap-trap instruments, in behalf of Uncle Antonio.

It was gratifying to see Uncle’s face when he played. With all mechanical difficulties overcome, he was free to give his entire attention to the fine shadings and hidden meanings of the composition. It was pleasing, also, to note how close he came to the hearts of the people. Even the little children would come and stand around Uncle Antonio when he played upon his organ, and musicians in the neighbourhood, gnashing their teeth in jealous rage, would close their windows to keep my Uncle’s notable accomplishments from belittling their own. It is ever thus. Upon my own trail have sprung up a score or more of writers on Natural History—but I must not say more, lest I be thought too personal.

Uncle Antonio, also, was a lover of the wild animals. He had one pet, in particular, which meant much to him—a genuine African Monkey, imported at great expense and difficulty. He had taught the intelligent animal a great many cunning tricks—in fact, Jocko could do almost everything but speak. Through Jocko I had first come to an understanding of Uncle Antonio. There is an old saying to the effect that, in order to know a man, you must first meet his Dog, and then see them together. In the same way, you must have known Jocko in order to comprehend my Uncle.

I was within a quarter of a mile of my cabin, my pulses bounding with happy anticipation, when a low moan, which seemingly came from a broken heart, struck my ear. I paused and stood like a marble statue—a trick I had learned from my kindred of the wild. Then the curious sound was repeated.

Stealthily, I made my way toward the cabin, but I was not yet so skilled in woodcraft that my feet made no noise. Before I reached the door, my Uncle came out, and a glance at his face showed me that he had met with a great loss.

Like other geniuses, Uncle was somewhat careless in his attire. As a family, we had often laboured with him on this point, but to no avail. The unfettered spirit of the great will express itself in outward semblance, and at length we gave it up. Uncle wore a pair of trousers which, at first sight, did not appear to be his, and a negligee shirt, wide open at the throat, like a poet’s. A bright red handkerchief, carelessly knotted, took the place of a tie, and his coat was his velvet one, to which he had been strongly attached for many years. Small hoops of gold, similar to those worn by Venetian noblemen, hung from the pendant lobes of his musical ears.

Seeing me, he eyed me for a moment in great astonishment. “Hella da dev!” he exclaimed. “What for you coma da here?”

I can never hope to describe, in English, the charm of my Uncle’s foreign accent. Long years of residence in this country had not eradicated it, and his low, melodious voice, full of unexpected harmonies, gave a lyric quality to his conversation.

“I am here,” I returned, “because this is my cabin. I might ask the same question of you,” I added, playfully.

“Hella da dev!” said Uncle once more. This quaint, foreign phrase, indicating a pleasant surprise, often appeared in his speech. “My father-in-law, he giva da coop to you? It is astonish!”

“Yes,” I sighed, “it is.” Grandfather was one of those thrifty pioneers who held on to a cent until the Indian howled.

Uncle sat down and wiped his forehead with the fancy, coloured handkerchief which was an heirloom in his family. This was quite in keeping with the situation, for I have often known the unexpected sight of a relative to produce cold perspiration on the skin of a sensitive, emotional person.

“Listen,” said Uncle, struggling to his feet. “I tella you. Here I come two, tree day back. Maka da gr-rand professional tour through ze back countree, where zees poor pipple, zey haf no moosic at all. It ees pitiful.”

I nodded. Such generosity was like Uncle.

“Getta da cent,” he resumed, “getta da tree cent. Zees grateful pipple, what haf no moosic, zey nevaire giva da nick, no, nevaire! Wis Jocko, zen, I meet zees place, where I stay for ze little res’ away from ze unappreciatif pipple. An’ here, what you zink? Jocko haf been stole from me!” Here his voice rose to an agonised shriek: “_Jocko haf been stole!_”

His grief broke through the dam and overflowed. The sight of a strong man’s tears is always terrible, and I turned away until the first outburst subsided.

Then I advanced to comfort the stricken man. “Perhaps, Uncle Antonio,” I said, kindly, “Jocko ran away of his own accord.”

“Hella da dev!” cried Uncle, clenching his hands. “What are zees pipple I haf been married to! Jocko, da monk, run away? Nevaire! Listen. Tree year now, Jocko and I maka da professional tour together. Jocko getta da cent from da audience, bringa him to me. Smarta da monk—weara da asbestos glove, taka da warm cent also. Jocko run away? Nevaire! Jocko haf been stole!”

After long consideration, I thought so, too. I knew very well that if any human being had stolen the Monkey, he would have been returned long before this. My memory of the animal was that he was rather troublesome, but of course I did not wish to say so, for fear of hurting my Uncle’s feelings.

Eliminating the human element from the proposition, there remained only one possible conclusion. Some animal had done it, in response to that merciless law of the wilderness, which bids the wood people seek and slay and devour; the law of claw and tooth and fang, from which there is no appeal.

Jocko had not been taken from his high perch—this left tramps and neighbours out of the question, also Coons and Owls. He had not been left partly eaten, so that Weasels, Pole-Cats, or Minks were not responsible. What animal could have taken Jocko away bodily? My quick, active mind immediately answered: “A Fox!”

I said nothing to Uncle Antonio of my suspicion. In the morning, when I went down to the lake for my bath, I found a foxglove which surely had not been there the night before. It was a mother, then, foraging for her young. I wondered how they liked Jocko. He was so disagreeable to me, personally, that he would certainly have disagreed with me, even if I had eaten him.