XXIII. 



THE COMICAL CROW BABY. 



Nothing in the world of feathers is so comi- 

 cal as a crow baby, with its awkward bows and 

 ungainly hops, its tottering steps on the fence 

 and its mincing, tight-boot sort of gait on the 

 ground, its eager fluttering when it has hopes of 

 food, and its loud and unintermitting demand 

 for the same. 



My window overlooked a long stretch of cattle 

 pastures and meadows still uncut, bounded on 

 one side by woods, and in the middle of this 

 valley unvisited by man, the crows of the neigh- 

 borhood established a training school for their 

 youngsters. A good glass let me in as unsus- 

 pected audience, and I had views of many in- 

 teresting family scenes, supposed by the wary 

 parents to be visible only to the cows stolidly 

 feeding on the hillside. In this way I had all 

 the fun and none of the trouble of the training 

 business. 



It is astonishing how completely the manner 

 of the adult crow is lacking in his young off- 

 spring, whose only external difference is the 



