Once upon a time there was an old black crow, as old as the hills. And
once there was a scarecrow, brand new to his business. The scarecrow was
made of a corn stalk wearing the farmer’s cast-off hat and coat.
The very first day he took up his post in the cornfield, the old black
crow, flying over, laughed at his disguise.
“Caw, caw, caw,” she cried,
“I know you, poor old stalk,
Bloodless is your body,
You neither run nor walk.”
The scarecrow kept his temper and said nothing, and this looks as if he
were clever. For the old crow had to take herself off without knowing
what he was thinking of.
Now the scarecrow _was_ clever. He made friends with Magic Darkness and
Moving Wind. He had made up his mind to frighten thieving crows away, no
matter how old and knowing they might be. And that very evening when the
old black crow, as old as the hills, came flying toward the cornfield,
with her five black children after her, he whispered, “Now, Magic
Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.”
And they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and
Moving Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together so that he looked
exactly as if he were the farmer stooping to load a gun.
When the old black crow saw this, she whispered, “Turn back, children,
and don’t speak for your lives;” and although she was as old as the
hills, she turned tail as fast as she could, with her five black children
after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of an
apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, she breathed more freely.
“Oh, my children,” she panted, “it was no cornstalk scarecrow at all; it
was the farmer himself, alive and loading his gun for us.”
But when she awoke in the morning light, she felt rather puzzled. “I’ve
seen a good many scarecrows in my time,” she said; “I should know a man
from a shadow. I’ll go and have a look at him in broad daylight.”
So as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to school
to hear how featherless children make crow’s nests with their fingers,
she spread her wings for the cornfield where she had seen the brand new
scarecrow. There he stood as plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of
a blind crow.
“I’m not old enough to be blind yet,” she said; “you’re a dried-up
cornstalk if ever there was one. You’ll not frighten me this evening and
send me and my children scurrying home.” And she sang mockingly,
“Caw, caw, caw,
I know you, poor old stalk,
Bloodless is your body,
You neither run nor walk.”
But the clever scarecrow kept his temper and answered never a word. So
again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.
Well, toward evening along came flying again the old black crow, as old
as the hills, with her five black children after her. And again the
scarecrow whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help me.” And
they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his headlessness, and Moving
Wind bent his body and pushed his arms together, then straightened him
suddenly, like this, halfway, and held his arms out in front, one hand
beyond the other, so, as if he were searching for the trigger of a gun.
When the old crow saw him she cried, “Turn back, children, at once,”
turning herself so suddenly that she bumped into the beak of the first
little crow behind her. It was not until she reached her nest built of
sticks in the fork of the apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and had
rested a minute, that she breathed freely.
“Oh, my children,” she said, “without doubt it was no scarecrow; it was
the farmer, alive, and placing his finger on the trigger of his gun to
shoot us.”
But again when she awoke in the morning light she felt puzzled. “It’s
very strange,” she said. “I’ve seen a good many scarecrows in my time.
I should know a man from a shadow. I’ll have another look at him in the
broad daylight.”
So, as soon as breakfast was over and the crow children had gone to
school to hear how featherless grown-ups get crow’s feet on their faces,
she spread her wings for the cornfield. There stood the scarecrow as
plain a humbug as ever deceived the eyes of a blind crow.
“Well,” she said, “unless blindness is catching and the bats gave it to
me, you’re a dried-up corn stalk if ever there was one. If an old crow
that was living before you were even thought of knows anything, you’ll
not frighten me this evening!” And she sang mockingly,
“Caw, caw, caw,
I know you, poor old stalk,
Bloodless is your body,
You neither run nor walk.”
But the clever scarecrow kept his temper, and answered never a word. So
again the old crow had to take herself off no wiser about his thoughts.
Well, all good things go in threes, as every child who knows more than a
crow can tell you. So the third evening along came flying the old black
crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children after her. And
the third time he whispered, “Now, Magic Darkness and Moving Wind, help
me.” And the third time they did. Magic Darkness came down and hid his
headlessness, and Moving Wind bent him sharply down, lifted him halfway
with his arms held out, one hand beyond the other, like this; then
suddenly straightened him up with arms pointing up at the crows.
“Don’t shoot, dear farmer,” shrieked the old crow. She hadn’t time to
turn tail. “My children and I will let your corn alone until you have
harvested it.”
Immediately Moving Wind dropped the scarecrow’s armless sleeves and
brought his hat back to its position on the top of the stalk. And away
flew the old crow, as old as the hills, with her five black children
after her. When she reached her nest built of sticks in the fork of the
apple-tree a quarter of a mile away, and she had rested two minutes, she
said, “My children, keep away from that field until I tell you the corn
has been gathered in.”
When the corn was harvested, the old black crow and her five black
children went gleaning to pick up the kernels that had dropped, and fat
eating they had. And the scarecrow let them enjoy their meal in peace;
his duty was done.
—ANGELA M. KEYES