CORBIE 



had been really good-looking in his black suit ; but by the 

 first of September he was homely again. His little side-, 

 feather moustache dropped out at the top of his beak, so 

 that his nostrils were uncovered as they had been when 

 he was very young. The back of his head was nearly 

 bald, and his neck and breast were ragged and tattered. 



Yes, Corbie was molting, and he had a very unfin- 

 ished sort of look w^hile the new crop of paint-brushes 

 sprouted out all over him. But it was worth the discom- 

 forts of the molt to have the new feather coat, all shiny 

 black; and Corbie was even handsomer than he had 

 been during the summer, when cold days came, and he 

 needed his warm thick suit. 



At this time all the wild crowds that had nested in that 

 part of the country flew every night from far and wide 

 to the famous crow-roost, not far from a big peach or- 

 chard. They came down from the mountain that showed 

 like a long blue ridge against the sky. They flew across a 

 road that looked, on account of the color of the dirt, like 

 a pinkish-red ribbon stretching off and away. They left 

 the river-edge and the fields. Every night they gathered 

 together, a thousand or more of them. Corbie's father 

 and mother were among them, and Corbie's two broth- 

 ers and two sisters. But Corbie was not with those 

 thousand crows. 



No cage held him, and no one prevented his flying 



119 



