At the bend of the river
where you disappear, the ripple halts a while, like a projecting stub
in the current, then turns and goes swiftly back. There is another
splash; the builders come out again; a dozen ripples are scattering
star reflections all over the pool; while the little wood folk pause a
moment to look at the new works curiously, then go their ways, shy,
silent, industrious, through the wilderness night.
VII. CROW-WAYS.
[Illustration]
The crow is very much of a rascal--that is, if any creature can be
called a rascal for following out natural and rascally inclinations. I
first came to this conclusion one early morning, several years ago, as
I watched an old crow diligently exploring a fringe of bushes that
grew along the wall of a deserted pasture. He had eaten a clutch of
thrush's eggs, and carried off three young sparrows to feed his own
young, before I found out what he was about. Since then I have
surprised him often at the same depredations.
An old farmer has assured me that he has also caught him tormenting
his sheep, lighting on their backs and pulling the wool out by the
roots to get fleece for lining his nest. This is a much more serious
charge than that of pulling up corn, though the latter makes almost
every farmer his enemy.
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