WINTER SUNSHINE. 17 



The crow may not have the sweet voice which the 

 fox in his flattery attributed to him, but he has a 

 good, strong, native speech nevertheless. How much 

 character there is in it ! How much thrift and in- 

 dependence ! Of course his plumage is firm, his color 

 decided, his wit quick. He understands you at once 

 and tells you so; so does the hawk by his scorn- 

 ful, defiant whir-r-r-r-r. Hardy, happy outlaws, the 

 crows, how I love them. Alert, social, republican, 

 always able to look out for themselves, not afraid of 

 the cold and the snow, fishing when flesh is scarce and 

 stealing when other resources fail, the crow is a char- 

 acter I would not willingly miss from the landscape. 

 I love to see his track in the snow or the mud, and 

 his graceful pedestrianism about the brown fields. 



He is no interloper but has the air and manner of 

 being thoroughly at home and in rightful possession 

 of the land. He is no sentimentalist like some of the 

 plaining, disconsolate song-birds, but apparently is al- 

 ways in good health and good spirits. No matter who 

 is sick, or dejected, or unsatisfied, or what the weather 

 is, or what the price of corn, the crow is well and 

 finds life sweet. He is the dusky embodiment of 

 worldly wisdom and prudence. Then he is one of Nat- 

 ure's self-appointed constables and greatly magnifies 

 his office. He would fain arrest every hawk or owl 

 or grimalkin that ventures abroad. I have known a 

 posse of them to beset the fox and cry " thief" till 

 Reynard hid himself for shame. Do I say the fox 

 riattered the crow when he told him he had a sweet 

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