XXIII. 



THE COMICAL CROW BABY. 



NOTHING in the world of feathers is so comi- 

 cal as a crow baby, with its awkward bows and 

 ungainly hops, its tottering steps on the fence 

 and its mincing, tight-boot sort of gait on the 

 ground, its eager fluttering when it has hopes of 

 food, and its loud and unintermitting demand 

 for the same. 



My window overlooked a long stretch of cattle 

 pastures and meadows still uncut, bounded on 

 one side by woods, and in the middle of this 

 valley un visited by man, the crows of the neigh- 

 borhood established a training school for their 

 youngsters. A good glass let me in as unsus- 

 pected audience, and I had views of many in- 

 teresting family scenes, supposed by the wary 

 parents to be visible only to the cows stolidly 

 feeding on the hillside. In this way I had all 

 the fun and none of the trouble of the training 

 business. 



It is astonishing how completely the manner 

 of the adult crow is lacking in his young off- 

 spring, whose only external difference is the 



