While others may sing of the pleasures of spring,
Or winter or summer or fall,
I'll sing not of these, because, if you please,
I'll sing of just nothing at all.
Just nothing at all, because, oh, ho!
I'll sing of myself, an old black crow.
As black as a coal and as homely as sin--
What more can I tell you, I pray?
For when you have nothing to sing of, why, then,
Of course there is nothing to say.
Nothing to say at all, oh, ho!
Except goodby to the old black crow--
The rollicking old black crow!
They made a good deal of fuss over Mr. Crow's poem. They applauded, of
course, but they said it wasn't so at all, and that Mr. Crow was a good
deal more than "just nothing." They said that it was he who had got up
this party, and that he was the best man to plan and cook anywhere. Mr.
'Possum said he even liked Mr. Crow's April fool chicken pies, and then
they all remembered and laughed, even to Mr. Crow himself. After that it
was Mr. Squirrel's turn. Mr. Squirrel coughed twice and straightened
his vest before he began, so they knew his poem wasn't to be funny.