THE CROW'S WING 



FROM the Gulf to the Great Lakes, 

 from California's Golden Gate on 

 the west to Far Rockaway on the 

 east, a broad and sable wing beats the air. 

 In sun and shine, through rain, hail, or sleet, 

 long lines of black at the coming of twilight 

 mark the airy, distant trails where the crow 

 flies. The ebon pinions of his Ishmaelitish clan 

 darken the skies in most states of the Union. 

 He is himself an undaunted robber and pirate, 

 with the black-flag always flying and a harsh 

 challenge of sombre note that menaces and 

 beats back the fates. Every bird's beak is 

 against him, and he is at war with the rest 

 of the feathered tribes. Not in all of my 

 out-door life have I ever noticed sociability 

 on the part of the crow toward other birds. 

 He often robs their nests and kills their 

 young. When the kingbird, or bee-martin, 

 as he is sometimes called, attacks the crow, 

 that hardy freebooter spreads wing and is 

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