MR. THOMPSON AND THE CROWS.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

"I reckon them plaguey crows are goin' to eat up all the corn," said 'Lisha one morning during a discussion with Mr. Thompson regarding the weather, the state of the crops, and so forth.

"Hm!" said Mr. Thompson; then paused as if immersed in thought. "Hm!" he continued; "I have read that in England children are employed to keep the crows off the corn."

"Reckon corn can't pay a very big profit there, if they have to take the child's wages out of the price of the crop," commented 'Lisha.

"And it struck me," continued Mr. Thompson, not heeding the interruption, "that I might sit in the field and read, and at the same time keep the crows away."

"I s'pose you could, ef you didn't go to sleep," replied 'Lisha, with a sly laugh.

Mr. Thompson sniffed indignantly, and after a little more talk it was decided that he should take his book and sit in the corner of the field. After he had settled himself comfortably, and read several pages, he began to feel drowsy. His book dropped on his knee, and his thoughts turned to the crows.

"I wonder what they pull up the corn for?" he murmured. "They don't seem to eat it."

"'Cause," replied a coarse voice just behind him.

"'Cause why?" inquired Mr. Thompson.

"'Cause we do eat some, and we pull up the rest for fun," replied the voice.

Mr. Thompson turned to look: there was a big crow sitting on the fence gazing at him curiously, his black head was cocked on one side, and his bead-like eyes were full of mischief.

"Don't you know that is very wicked?" said Mr. Thompson, severely.

"Humph!" croaked the crow, contemptuously. "If you was a crow, you'd feel differently."

"I should always feel like doing right," said Mr. Thompson.

"Try it, and see," croaked the crow.

Mr. Thompson felt himself shrinking, and his black coat was changing to feathers.

No sooner had the change become complete than he felt an irresistible desire to pull up a hill of corn. As soon as he had uprooted one, he was filled with joy and a desire to destroy. He went to work with a will, and in a few minutes had pulled up quite a number.

"I thought that was very wicked," croaked a hoarse voice, with a tone of sarcasm.

Mr. Thompson paused a moment. "It is," he admitted. "But," he added, "it is such fun; and then men shoot us at every possible opportunity. It is no more than fair that we should get even with them."

"You talk like a sensible crow," said his companion. "But here comes a man;" and he uttered a derisive "Caw!" as he flew off, followed by Mr. Thompson.

"Let's go down to the shore," remarked the crow, as they came in sight of Long Island Sound.

Soon they were on the shore of a little creek that came in from the Sound. Mr. Thompson and his companion walked along the edge of the water, when suddenly Mr. Thompson spied a soft crab. He made a quick snatch for it, and caught it. His companion looked on in disdain.

"Humph!" he said, "who wants a crab? I've got a clam."

"What good is a clam?" retorted Mr. Thompson. "You can't open it."

"Can't I, though?" and the crow took the clam in his beak, flew high over the stony beach, and dropped it. The shell cracked, and the crow ate the clam with a relish.

"Look out! here comes a kingbird!"

Suddenly, with an angry cry, a small gray bird swooped down upon them, and making a vigorous peck at Mr. Thompson's eye, dashed off before he could retaliate.

"Come on," cried the old crow: "there is no use of sitting still and getting our eyes picked out."

They flew as rapidly as they could over toward the corn field, the kingbird following them a part of the way. When they reached the field, the crow alighted on the head of a stuffed figure which the farmer had set up for a scarecrow. Mr. Thompson settled on the outstretched arm.

"Yes," said the old crow, as if continuing a previous conversation—"yes, it amuses me to see the way these farmers think to frighten us with their stuffed figures. Now anything that is in motion, like that bunch of feathers over there, really does scare me, for I never know how far it will swing; but the idea of any intelligent crow being frightened at this thing—why, it is preposterous. And then the contemptible way in which they treat us, too—shooting us whenever they have a chance. Now there comes a crowd up the road in a wagon. They won't hurt us; they are afraid to shoot when the horses are around. Hullo! one man is getting out, and, as I live, he has a gun. Let's be off."

But Mr. Thompson got confused, and instead of flying away, he flapped heavily toward the corner of the field, and alighted beside his book. The man with the gun crawled cautiously up to the fence. It was 'Lisha.

"Wa'al, I vow, ef here ain't Mr. Thompson fast asleep!" he muttered. "I'll give him a scare;" and cocking his gun, he discharged it close to Mr. Thompson.

Mr. Thompson jumped up, and looked around savagely. "What are you shooting at?" he demanded, sharply.

"Nothin' in particular," replied 'Lisha, somewhat abashed. "I tried to shoot a crow, but the pesky thing flew off."

"Of course he did. We saw you get out of the wagon, and he knew you had come to murder him," said Mr. Thompson, severely.

'Lisha looked at him in surprise. "I reckon you've been asleep," he ventured. "You cum out to keep the crows off the corn, and when I cum here, thar was two settin' on the scarecrow."

"Yes," replied Mr. Thompson, calmly, "that was my friend and me;" and he walked majestically toward the house.

'Lisha looked at him in open-mouthed amazement. "Wa'al, I vow, he do hev the funniest dreams!" he muttered. "But," he added, after a moment's reflection, "it 'pears to me one of them crows did fly over to this corner." And 'Lisha shouldered his gun and walked home, speculating upon the eccentricities of the "city boarder."