much the same way as he had abused the owl. 
The coon backed slowly away and Jim, evidently 
pleased by what he must have regarded as the 
coon’s fear of him, kept walking forward. 
Suddenly, without the slightest warning, the coon 
sprang at him like a whirlwind, and it was 
only by the merest chance that the crow ever 
lived to tell the tale. As it was he lost at least 
a dozen of his black feathers. But this did not 
end the war, and day after day the crow screamed 
at the coon and seemed to call him all the vile 
names in the crow language. He never again 
made the mistake, however, of getting close 
enough for the coon to catch him. 
II 
Aut these things went on in broad daylight, 
but when night came there was a different story 
to tell. Jim roosted in a large fig bush close by 
the house, and at night, when there were few 
sounds except the call of the katydid, the 
croaking of frogs, and now and then the song 
of a mockingbird, Jim Crow could hear the 
chain rattle as the coon ran to and fro on his 
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