Caught in the Rain. 275 



As the day drew to a close, crows began flying 

 over, and their familiar calls filled the air. Again 

 I should have indulged in reverie, but my com- 

 panions' return held me to the solid ground of 

 heartless fact. It was time to return, and my 

 eagerness to still listen to the " dear old crows," as 

 I called them, was greeted with ridicule. That 

 such a bird should awaken pleasant memories, or 

 be listened to with pleasure, was evidence of 

 mental weakness. I do not know what passed in 

 their minds, but that they feared I was strangely 

 affected was more than apparent. But no gibes 

 can cure me of loving the crows, and I trust not 

 to suffer from so strange a whim. If man, to be 

 happy, must have a hobby, why not this of mine ? 

 My defence of these much-maligned birds led to 

 my hearers' suggestion, to talk thus savored of a 

 crank ; but, bless me ! why worry if dolts call you 

 names ? Who ever saw a fool in a flock of crows ? 

 and, alas ! who ever saw a flock of men without 

 its quota ? To be cunning as a crow is a laudable 

 ambition ; to be knowing as a crow, a liberal edu- 

 cation. Why not love them ? They afford me 

 both pleasure and profit, and of what use, under 



