72 American Birds 



seemed to have a closer companionship with us. He was 

 alone and a cripple; he needed our care and we gave it. 

 He was a joy and a sorrow at the same time — a joy to 

 watch his quick, bright ways, but a sorrow to have any 

 dealings with him. 



When Jack Crow was little he would sit up and beg 

 us to feed him, his wings fluttering and his bill stuck 

 straight up so you could see nothing but a hole in his 

 head. And all the while he was caw-awing at us. We 

 fed him everything. Fish-worms, berries, and soaked 

 corn were the main part of his diet. He was particularly 

 fond of hominy. 



The weather continued cold and we were afraid the 

 young crow would get chilled and die, so one night we 

 put him to bed with old Jack, our dog, and after that we 

 could never get them apart. Jack Crow made a regular 

 den out of the kennel, and it seemed to me that old Jack 

 was consenting to lawlessness in the community when he 

 allowed his black companion to bring in his booty and 

 store it away. 



It was all " jug-handle " love between the two Jacks. 

 Jack Crow clung to the old dog for warmth and safety. 

 His was a politic friendship. But It was different with 

 old Jack. His dog fidelity told him to protect the little 

 black bird, and that was enough for him. There was no 

 such faith In the crow's creed. He took toll from friend 

 and foe. A dinner call for " Jack " brought both. Two 

 dishes were, set out and each knew his place, but Jack 

 Crow had a short memory. He left his own dish and 

 stood close to the dog's plate, watching him eat. He 

 seemed to measure every bite old Jack took, and every 



