In Southern Hoosier Hills 41 



there as a lesson to his marauding brothers, but I couldn't 

 believe that the lesson had sunk very deep into the crow 

 mind, for on a tree less than fifty yards from the body of the 

 deceased, three crows were sitting and sunning themselves 

 unconcernedly. 



Before the morning was spent I had found out why it is 

 that heavy windstorms fail to break the eggs in birds' nests 

 that are hung on frail branches which sway and snap with 

 every blast. The roads were in such condition that they 

 were impassable for wagons, and many people passed us on 

 horseback. If memory serves, every one of the horsemen 

 carried a basket of eggs slung over his right arm. The horses 

 floundered through mud-holes, and made their stumbling ways 

 up and down hills where the roadway was covered with 

 stumps and stones washed out from the embankments by the 

 heavy rain. The rider in every instance made the basket with 

 its precious burden conform to the swaying motion of the 

 horse, and never an egg did I see broken. One rider told us 

 that he depended largely on the egg crop for a living and 

 that he couldn't afford to smash any. He further volunteered 

 the information that he thought he could fall down hill with 

 his horse "and never crack a shell." 



Our way led us through a little hamlet. At the crossing 

 of two roads there was a tavern with a huge tree standing in 

 front of its door. There were six bronzed grackles holding a 

 "windy congress" in the branches. A redbird occupied a 

 perch at the very top of a small tree which stood at the gate 

 of a cottage next the inn. Four boys were playing about the 

 gate, and though the bird was calling loudly, the youngsters 

 paid no heed. I thought it promised well for the future of the 

 race of redbirds when a songster of such brilliancy could sit 



