DAYS NEAR THANKSGIVING 
birds’ nests. But they are empty, their usefulness 
being long since past. I feel a little desolate about 
these nests. They tell so plainly that the birds 
have gone, and that there is a long wait before their 
return. One black individual remains that claims 
November for his own. The crow fits in with the 
sombre day and its spirit. When sky and trees 
are grey, he takes to flight, rising, as it were, from 
nowhere. He is the blackest note in the landscape 
as he flies off, perchance to help Timothy in the 
cornfield, for crows delight in feasting on the far- 
mer’s corn and seek the left-over ears which occa- 
sionally stand out from the stacks. Poor crea- 
tures! the kernels in such ears are hard and dry. 
Who but a miser would begrudge them their meal ? 
Joseph insists, however, that crows are cowards 
and have not the highest standard of morals. But 
I have only heard of one really wicked crow, while 
those I now see about quite cheer me. I do not 
agree with people who think they make this 
time of the year more dreary. They give a life 
and a sound to its greyness. 
The wicked crow I know about stole and prob- 
ably devoured a young chicken. It happened in 
the spring when chickens are tender and at the 
age to make good broilers. Timothy Pennell’s 
son had raised a number for the market, regarding 
them with pride and expectations. One day from 
the window he saw a crow sweep down from the 
broad sky, and take back in the air with him one 
