WINTER SUNSHINE 9 



ever. Nature dare not trust him to speak. In his 

 case she preserves a discreet silence. 



The crow may not have the sweet voice which 

 the fox in his flattery attributed to him, but he has 

 a good, strong, native speech nevertheless. How 

 much character there is in it! How much thrift 

 and independence! Of course his plumage is firm, 

 his color decided, his wit quick. He understands 

 you at once and tells you so; so does the hawk by 

 his scornful, defiant whir-r-r-r-r. Hardy, happy 

 outlaws, the crows, how I love them ! Alert, social, 

 republican, always able to look out for himself, not 

 afraid of the cold and the snow, fishing when flesh 

 is scarce, and stealing when other resources fail, 

 the crow is a character I would not willingly miss 

 from the landscape. I love to see his track in the 

 snow or the mud, and his graceful pedestrianism 

 about the brown fields. 



He is no interloper, but has the air and manner 

 of being thoroughly at home, and in rightful posses 

 sion of the land. He is no sentimentalist like some 

 of the plaining, disconsolate song-birds, but appar 

 ently is always in good health and good spirits. 

 No matter who is sick, or dejected* or unsatisfied, 

 or what the weather is, or what the price of corn, 

 the crow is well and finds life sweet. He is the 

 dusky embodiment of worldly wisdom and prudence. 

 Then he is one of Nature's self-appointed constables 

 and greatly magnifies his office. He would fain 

 arrest every hawk or owl or grimalkin that ventures 

 abroad. I have known a posse of them to beset the 



