Once, long ago, there was a farm there;
but even the cellars have disappeared, and the crows no longer fear
the place.
It was an easy task to creep unobserved through the nearest pine
grove, and gain a safe hiding place under some junipers on the edge of
the old pasture. The cawing meanwhile was intermittent; at times it
broke out in a perfect babel, as if every crow were doing his best to
outcaw all the others; again there was silence save for an occasional
short note, the _all's well_ of the sentinel on guard. The crows are
never so busy or so interested that they neglect this precaution.
When I reached the junipers, the crows--half a hundred of them--were
ranged in the pine tops along one edge of the open. They were quiet
enough, save for an occasional scramble for position, evidently
waiting for something to happen. Down on my right, on the fourth or
open side of the pasture, a solitary old crow was perched in the top
of a tall hickory. I might have taken him for a sentry but for a
bright object which he held in his beak. It was too far to make out
what the object was; but whenever he turned his head it flashed in the
sunlight like a bit of glass.
As I watched him curiously he launched himself into the air and came
speeding down the center of the field, making for the pines at the
opposite end.
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