HONEST JIM CROW
Jim Crow, the black, the glossy, the dapper, the wise, the solemn, was
not a native of the Lighthouse island, which indeed was too barren a
spot for birds fond of good things to eat. He was not a native, but an
immigrant, for the Lighthouse Inspector had brought him to Lesley on
one of his visits, saying that he had been found in the woods on the
mainland--just a little bunch of fuzz with short dark feathers sticking
out here and there--and that it was supposed that he had fallen out of
the nest and been deserted by his parents.
The Inspector had cared for him until he was now a fine fellow with
the glossiest of black feathers, and as he appeared to be of a good
disposition and of winning ways there was no reason why he should not
make an admirable pet. The children thought so, of course, and were
never tired of watching his quaint actions and laughing at his solemn
manner.
As soon as Jim Crow grew wonted to his new home, he began to choose his
friends and seemed to love Lesley most of all. Next to her he appeared
to fancy a large white hen, with a brood of nine little chicks, in a
coop under the shade of a rock. Jim used to visit her many times a day,
standing near the bars of her prison and talking with her in a low,
croaking tone. Sometimes, between his stories, he would help himself
to the food left by Mother Hen and her family; then begin croaking to
her again, and Biddy would answer with an occasional cluck as if she
understood all that he was telling her.
The old hen, while always watchful over her little ones, never seemed
to fear that Jim would hurt any of them, and when the chicks became so
large that they were let out of the coop and the family roamed about
seeking for worms and insects, Jim still continued his association with
them, following them about for hours each day. At nightfall, however,
he always came back to his box, while Biddy and her family joined the
other fowls in the hen-house.
Another of Jim’s chums was the tuneful Jenny Lind. For some portion of
each day he used to follow her about, always keeping a few feet from
her nose, as she grazed.
When he grew tired of walking, he would hop to her back, and,
squatting upon her hips, where he could not be reached by the switching
tail, he would keep up a constant croaking and chattering. This
chattering was always in a low tone, but it went up and down just like
the voice of a person who is telling some great secret, something not
to be repeated to any one else, on any account.
Jim had his dislikes as well as his likes, and he evidently held but
a poor opinion of Margaret McLean. She had often caught him snatching
a morsel from the kitchen table or shelves and had on each occasion
hastily swept him out with the broom. Nowadays he entered the kitchen
with a wary eye fixed upon her, and if he did not go upstairs at once
to Humpty Dumpty Land, would perch in some high place and scold and
grumble to himself. You could always tell from the tone of his voice
whether he was scolding or chattering, and Mrs. McLean said she really
felt uncomfortable sometimes, when that low croaking voice went on
and on behind her back, apparently saying, “Meanie! Meanie! Mean old
thing! Drove me out! Drove me out! Wouldn’t give me any dinner! Meanie!
Meanie!”
Jim’s chief interest in Humpty Dumpty Land lay in the children’s
collections and particularly in their beads and buttons. Whenever he
made a call upstairs, after flying to Lesley’s shoulder and caressing
her with his beak, he betook himself to the green shelves and turned
over the beads, the buttons, and the pebbles one by one, saying to
himself, meanwhile: “Oh! pretty, pretty! Pretty, shiny things! Jim Crow
like shiny things! Poor Jim Crow! Only have black feathers! _Poor_ Jim
Crow!”
If these were not his exact words, though Lesley contended that they
were, they evidently embodied his meaning and the gleam of envy and
desire of possession were so marked in his cunning black eye that on
the day of the children’s visit to Stumpy, Ronald said as they played
in Humpty Dumpty Land, “I wonder if Jim Crow knows anything about your
necklace, Lesley!”
This precious treasure, a chain of tiny gold beads sent from
Grandmother in Scotland as a New Year’s present, had totally
disappeared a few weeks after the holiday and not so much as a glint of
it had ever since been seen. Lesley had wept bitter tears over the loss
and had received many a scolding for her carelessness with the pretty
gift, but indeed, indeed, she told her mother, she had never worn
it out of the house and had always kept it at night in a box in her
bedroom.
At Ronald’s query, Lesley gave a long look at her pet, who was doing
hard labor trying to break a button in two, at the same time crooning
to himself in a low tone, “Crows have no pretty buttons! Crows _ought_
to have pretty buttons! _Poor_ Jim Crow!”
“Oh, no, Ronnie,” cried Lesley; “Jim would never steal anything of
mine; he loves me too well. Don’t you, Jimmy?”
“Croak!” answered Master Crow, but he evidently felt that the
conversation was becoming too personal, for he left the room at once
in his most dignified manner. He did not mention that he held a small
red button in his beak, but, as he said afterwards, “What’s a button
between friends?”
“I’m going right down to Father and see what he thinks,” cried Ronnie,
running after Jim Crow.
“No, no, Ronnie! Don’t tell Father! I’m sure Jim never took my
necklace!” called Lesley, in distress.
Ronald was already halfway downstairs and heard not a word his sister
said in his haste to find Father, who was discovered at length in the
doorway of Jenny Lind’s stable smoking his afternoon pipe.
“What’s the trouble, sonny?” he asked. “Haste makes waste, you know.”
“Oh, Father, I’ve just thought. Do you believe Jim might have taken
Lesley’s necklace?”
“Jim?” questioned his father in a puzzled way. “Oh, you mean Jim Crow?
Why, I don’t know. What makes you think so?”
“It’s too bad!” cried Lesley, appearing at this moment; “Ronnie hasn’t
a bit of reason to say Jim took it.”
“Well,” said the boy, a little daunted by his sister’s indignation, “I
only thought.... You know yourself how much he likes shiny things, and
Mother _has_ caught him stealing in the kitchen.”
A burst of tears was Lesley’s answer and her father shook his head at
Ronald, saying in a kind voice: “Don’t cry about it, daughter. I mind
now that there was an old raven in Scotland stole my grandfather’s
spectacles once, but maybe he wasn’t well brought up.... I tell you
what, children,” bringing his hand down with a thump on his knee, “Jim
Crow _has_ got a ‘hidy-hole’ up there on the cornice of the house. I’ve
often watched him go there. I’ll get the long ladder and see what he
keeps in it.”
“Oh, let me, Daddy,” cried Ronald. “I’ll climb up the water-pipe.”
“You will not, then,” said his father, decidedly; “it’s bad for the
pipe and bad for your clothes, and you’re too heedless and reckless
altogether with your climbing.”
By this time Mrs. McLean had joined the group and heard the tale, and
she now laid a restraining hand on the boy’s shoulder, while Lesley’s
tears were dried in the excitement of the moment.
The long ladder was brought, laid against the house, Father climbed
slowly up, reached the spot in the cornice where he had so often seen
Jim Crow, and crying out, “Well, if this doesn’t beat the Dutch!” burst
into a hearty fit of laughter.
“Oh, what, Father? Oh, what?” cried the children, dancing with
impatience.
“Let them come up the ladder, Mother,” called Malcolm. “I’ll hold them
and they can see for themselves.”
The children were up before you could say Jack Robinson, and, looking
into a sheltered place on the cornice, just behind the water-pipe,
beheld Jim Crow’s hidy-hole with an astonishment not to be described.
It was a veritable robbers’ cave, for it held a number of bright
feathers, some tinfoil, a variety of beads and buttons, one of mother’s
thimbles, several pieces of colored glass and china, and, and--yes, it
really _did_ hold Lesley’s necklace.
“Oh, Father! Oh, Father!” cried Lesley, half-laughing and half-crying.
“Don’t take everything away from poor Jim; do leave him something!”
“Nonsense, you silly child!” called her mother from the foot of the
ladder; but her father said, dryly, “I suppose you don’t think it
necessary to leave him the thimble and the necklace, do you?”
“No, oh, no,” whimpered Lesley. “I know that would be silly, but he
_will_ be disappointed to find them gone when he comes to look at his
collection.”
“I’m ’fraid he will, poor old Jim,” sighed Ronnie, shaking his head.
“Oh, come down the ladder!” called Mother, impatiently. “I’m tired of
holding it. If you don’t want to hurt Jim Crow’s feelings, make him
another chain, but bring down my thimble, anyway.”
Mother’s suggestion was received with enthusiasm. The party descended
to earth, but the ladder was left in place while stout thread and large
needles were demanded. Lesley and Ronald sought their stores in Humpty
Dumpty Land, and in the course of an hour put together a necklace which
would have shamed all the jewels of the Princess Badroulboudour in the
“Arabian Nights.”
Malcolm McLean, laughing at the pranks of his astonishing children,
climbed the ladder and placed the ornament in Jim Crow’s hidy-hole
and when next that honest bird went to examine his treasures, he is
reported to have exclaimed, “My stars and garters! What do you think of
that? Now that’s what I call a necklace!”