I go AMERICAN ORNITHOLOGY 



got to the top, he pulled up the pole, telling us to be ready to catch the 

 young crows as he was about to push the nest from the tree top. Down 

 came the nest and young crows, but two of them were killed by the 

 fall. The third remained in the nest, falling the fifty feet in safety. 

 Will and I put the live one in the basket and covered it with the grain 

 sack. We then started with our captive for home, Uncle Eb. remain- 

 ing without success to try a shot at the old birds. When first caught, 

 he was anything but pretty to look at, being mostly mouth, legs, and 

 stubby pinfeathers, but it was not long before his feathers grew out 

 nice, black, and shiny and he learned to fly. The tiresome hours we 

 spent getting him food will never be forgotten. One morning Will 

 took "Jack" on his shoulder and started off to get pollywogs for our 

 pet's dinner. He put Mr. Crow down in a convenient place, but when 

 he was ready to go home Jack was gone. Imagine his surprise when 

 he saw the rogue catching pollys for himself. This was good luck for 

 now we could let Jack get his own dinners. The Robins and Bluebirds 

 used to torment him until he was afraid to go to the orchard alone, and 

 frequently when they chased him he would flee to the house for pro- 

 tection. He was as curious as a Magpie, examining everything that 

 came in his way until he was chased by a dog and nearly caught. For 

 a while after that he stayed in the trees, but soon began his mischiev- 

 ous habits again. He would steal all bright things, hiding them away 

 anywhere. One day when we had forgotten to feed him we found him 

 in the house helping himself from the table. As he got older he would 

 go to the woods and visit the wild crows, but he never failed to come 

 when we called him. We had heard of crows talking so we tried to 

 teach Jack to say his name. When we called "Jack" he would always 

 caw, but with all our trying we never succeeded in teaching him to say 

 any words. Jack came to a very sad end. We were accustomed to 

 giving him a drink of milk every night but one time we forgot him, so 

 he attempted te help himself from the forty gallon milk can. He fell 

 in and when we pulled him out he gasped a few times and died. Uncle 

 Eb. was glad to be rid of the "black nuisance" as he called Jack. That 

 made our loss all the harder to bear, so we shed some tears both of 

 sorrow and indignation and secretly threw chips at our uncle for 

 revenge, and clapped our hands in delight when he heard that the 

 accidental drowning spoiled half a can of milk. 



We dug a grave for Jack in the garden under a nice peach tree, and 

 made him a casket of a shoe box, fixing it all nice inside with soft paper 

 and leaves. We next had the funeral and planted choice flowers on his 

 grave. I want to go back to Pennsylvania next summer to see if I can 

 find his grave. Had Jack been as wise as the crow that put pebbles in 

 the pitcher to raise the water high enough to drink from, he might have 

 lived longer. Fred T. Morison, Age 11. 



