while the crow, Corz'us Americanus, can count his tributes of prose and poetry 

 upon his claws. 



"There were three crows sat on a tree," with its few following lines descript- 

 ive of the bird's fondness for battening on horse flesh, represents about all that 

 the muse has done for Corv^us. They are lasting lines, however, and give promise 

 of as long life as that of the bird which, if it equals the span of the raven's 

 years, will carry Coryus to the days of our grandchildren's grandchildren. 



"Black as a crow" has become a proverb of comparison. The man who 

 ventures to say that the crow is not black probably will be set down at once as 

 one who knows not the truth, but here is the statement flatly : The crow is not 

 black. His plumage when the sun strikes it full and fair shines with tints of 

 bronze and blue and purple. Light is needed to bring out brightness in all things, 

 and the crow is not to be held responsible because the first man who saw him 

 and dubbed him black" met him on a dark day. 



The crow has a price oil his head. He has been called a thief since the 

 day that his ancestor came out of the ark. The crow's character, like his feathers, 

 is nothing as black as man has seen fit to paint it. When the farmer reaches 

 for his gun because Corvus is at work in the field, supposedly pulling up the 

 newly planted corn, the chances are more than even that the bird is doing nothing 

 of the kind, but that he is attempting to save the corn by killing the cutworms. 



It is true that the crow robs the nests of other birds ; it is true, also, that 

 on occasion he steals grain, but men who have made a thorough study of his 

 food habits are convinced that the good that he does balances the evil. 



When nature finds that the croAv has multiplied to an extent that makes 

 of him a menace, disease strikes the flock and the scale of life and death is 

 readjusted. The Mother has no need of man's aid in her work, but man will 

 continue to force it upon her until that day when his own loss presses home a 

 lesson and he learns that wisdom is not all his own. 



I 



At Morn and at Eve 



By Minnie Noel Long 



Ringing and jubilant, rising and falling, 

 Sound the rich notes as the robins are calling, 

 Each to his mate, telling over the story 

 Of happiness, peace, and of Eden's first glory. 



Hauntingly sweet, as the twilight is falling, 

 Sad Vesper-sparrow is mournfully calling, 

 TelHng with infinite longing, the story 

 Of the loved Eden and all its lost glory. 



267 



