Pete Wagstaff, who was sitting close to the 
door. He arose, and stepping into the doorway 
shouted: ‘“‘Come hyar, Jim, you black raseal,”’ 
and to the horror of the congregation a crow ap- 
peared out of the night and lighted on Pete’s 
shoulder. At this the congregation arose with a 
yell, and Jim instantly fled, shrieking his favorite 
ery as he went. 
IV 
IN regions where farming is carried on nobody 
likes a crow, for crows pull up sprouting corn,’ 
destroy melons in the fields, and now and then 
get hens’ eggs and catch little chickens. Soit 
is generally understood that it is part of the 
business of every farm-hand to shoot a crow 
whenever he gets a chance. 
After the night Jim Haskel’s funeral was 
preached no plantation owner within a radius 
of ten miles could induce one of his colored 
helpers to kill a crow, for the story had gone 
abroad that Jim Haskel’s spirit had come back, 
and if anybody shot a crow he might happen 
to shoot this black ghost of their departed friend. 
When corn-planting time came the overseers 
147 
