From Fox's Earth 



black-faced sheep feed on the half-wild grasses. 

 I know not one scene of which poets have written, 

 or where lovers of grand or picturesque nature 

 go, that would not lose by the absence of one 

 or other of the crows. 



Their voices are not lovely, nor do they seem 

 to offer any encouragement to cultivation. Does 

 not Lady Nairn say, " Send a craw to the sing- 

 ing and still he will craw " ? But strange as it may 

 seem, the voice would be missed as greatly as 

 their presence. Harsh as it is, unelastic and 

 unsympathetic, a mere single cry, or equally rude 

 chatter, it appeals to the imagination and emotion 

 in an altogether powerful and peculiar way. The 

 range on either side is far, as from the raven of 

 Edgar Allan Poe to the jackdaw of Rheims. It 

 can rouse the fears, and make each particular hair 

 to stand on end ; it can give shape to the super- 

 stitions, these nameless haunters, even of a brave 

 and sane spirit ; it can open the closet and let 

 the sheeted ghosts come forth. 



The croak at midday is ominous, how much 

 more at midnight. Picture a group round the 

 fire over ghost stones, and a raven appearing at 

 the door and uttering one sound. If the croak 

 from the corrie stirs one's blacker moods, how 

 does the caw from over the swaying branches set 

 one a-dreaming. Tut ! tut ! We know not our 

 chief possessions. Nor have we any soul behind 

 the ear. 



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