THE RALLY OF THE CROWS 



Ernest Thompson Seton tells us, 

 "There is only one bird that terrifies the 

 crow." While making a botanical ex 

 cursion a few years ago it was my for 

 tune to see what I believe to be one of the 

 loudest and longest concerted demonstra 

 tion of this terror. 



It was toward evening and the thick 

 shade of the forest had given such pre 

 monition of the early twilight as had 

 settled all nature to rest ; the cricket had 

 not yet begun its evening chirp and 

 the mosquito had not piped its first note ; 

 the sky above seemed as devoid of life 

 as though the forest had been one deadly 

 upas tree. As the soft light of the sun 

 fell through the trees upon the carpet 

 of leaves at my feet, I stopped, sud 

 denly awed by this hush of nature : there 

 seemed to be but one presence now, that 

 of the Being who had created all, and 

 who had swung into space the sun and 

 planets, circling in their profound silence 

 above and around me. 



A loud cry of distress broke all this 

 stillness in a moment. A solitary crdw 

 was flying wildly above one of the tall 

 trees of the wood, telling as audibly as 

 human speech could have done the an 

 guish of its little heart. What it uttered 

 was not merely a cry, it was a call for 

 help, to which one bird its mate per 

 haps responded first, cleaving the ail 

 with rapid wing and striking the same 

 harsh note which was meant to summon 

 the clans. The response was not slow ; 

 from every direction black wings sped 

 toward this tree, screaming in one uni 

 form tone the danger and the need of 

 an attack on some foe; distant neigh 

 bors, which had not heard the first call, 

 were soon flying in straight lines toward 

 the tree, above which hovered now a 

 thick cloud of living, moving blackness. 



They circled round, they shot upward, 

 they darted downward, passing each 

 other rapidly in every conceivable direc 

 tion ; in small circles and large ; in per 

 pendiculars and horizontals, making an 

 gles of every degree, but never collid 

 ing. This harmony, combined with such 



speed, in so small a space, seemed a 

 miniature representation of the harmony 

 of the spheres. 



The united, uniform, .grating note of 

 this multitude was enough to "fill all the 

 air with anguish," and we should cer 

 tainly have expected the enemy to be 

 driven out in terror. But no, on a bough 

 just below, among the thick branches, 

 sat an owl, which had been the cause 

 of this commotion. 



When it lighted there it had been 

 blinking at a nest of unfledged crows; 

 meditating on the dainty supper they 

 would furnish it, and its nestlings, too, 

 perhaps: but it no longer turned its 

 large, firmly set, round eyes toward the 

 nest; it had lost all appetite for young- 

 crows ; another question than what it 

 should have for supper had sprung into 

 paramount importance. So it turned its 

 wise little three-cornered head very 

 slowly from side to side and deliberated. 



To fly would be to expose its broad, 

 sensitive body to a most vigorous assault 

 from the angry horde. If it should leave 

 its present shelter, its wide open eyes, 

 unprotected by lids, would be blinded .by 

 the light, thus taking away from it the 

 means of defense and leaving two shin 

 ing marks for tooth and nail of the at 

 tacking party : every instinct of the dep 

 redator said, "Wait," for he knew that 

 when darkness had settled over the twi 

 light it would let light into the great 

 eyes, while it would fast seal up those 

 of the mother bird and her allies. As 

 the crows did not cease their outcry 

 while I remained in the woods, I fear 

 the owl, vindicating its reputation for 

 wisdom, finally resolved to "win like 

 Fabius by delay." 



The mother crow and her helpful, 

 sympathizing neighbors deserved a vic 

 tory, but I fear they did not gain one 

 for our friend Ernest Thompson Seton 

 tells us, "There is only one time when 

 the crow is a fool, and that is at night." 

 We know, too, that the owl picks the 

 bones of its victims under cover of the 

 darkness. HARRIET S. OSMOND. 



140 



