WOODLAND PATHS 



"What? What's that?" It was an 

 unmistakable crow inquiry, fairly shouted 

 from the tree I had marked as the roost- 

 ing place. There was n't the space of a 

 breath between the snap of that branch 

 and the answer of the bird. Surely a 

 night-clerk in crow-town has an easy task. 

 There need be no prolonged hammering 

 on the door of the guest who would be 

 called early. One tap is sufficient. I had 

 hoped to stand beneath that tree and sight 

 my crow in the gray of dawn, see him 

 yawn with that prodigious black beak after 

 he had withdrawn it from under his wing, 

 then stretch one wing and one leg, as 

 birds do, look the world over, catch sight 

 of me and go off at a great pace, shout- 

 ing a hasty warning to the world in 

 general. 



But he did not need to see me. That 



breaking branch had opened his eyes and 

 26 



