[Illustration]
The crow is very much of a rascal--that is, if any creature can be
called a rascal for following out natural and rascally inclinations. I
first came to this conclusion one early morning, several years ago, as
I watched an old crow diligently exploring a fringe of bushes that
grew along the wall of a deserted pasture. He had eaten a clutch of
thrush's eggs, and carried off three young sparrows to feed his own
young, before I found out what he was about. Since then I have
surprised him often at the same depredations.
An old farmer has assured me that he has also caught him tormenting
his sheep, lighting on their backs and pulling the wool out by the
roots to get fleece for lining his nest. This is a much more serious
charge than that of pulling up corn, though the latter makes almost
every farmer his enemy.
Yet with all his rascality he has many curious and interesting ways.
In fact, I hardly know another bird that so well repays a season's
study; only one must be very patient, and put up with frequent
disappointments if he would learn much of a crow's peculiarities by
personal observation. How shy he is! How cunning and quick to learn
wisdom! Yet he is very easily fooled; and some experiences that ought
to teach him wisdom he seems to forget within an hour. Almost every
time I went shooting, in the old barbarian days before I learned
better, I used to get one or two crows from a flock that ranged over
my hunting ground by simply hiding among the pines and calling like a
young crow. If the flock was within hearing, it was astonishing to
hear the loud chorus of _haw-haws_, and to see them come rushing over
the same grove where a week before they had been fooled in the same
way. Sometimes, indeed, they seemed to remember; and when the pseudo
young crow began his racket at the bottom of some thick grove they
would collect on a distant pine tree and _haw-haw_ in vigorous answer.
But curiosity always got the better of them, and they generally
compromised by sending over some swift, long-winged old flier, only to
see him go tumbling down at the report of a gun; and away they would
go, screaming at the top of their voices, and never stopping till they
were miles away. Next week they would do exactly the same thing.
Crows, more than any other birds, are fond of excitement and great
crowds; the slightest unusual object furnishes an occasion for an
assembly. A wounded bird will create as much stir in a flock of crows
as a railroad accident does in a village. But when some prowling old
crow discovers an owl sleeping away the sunlight in the top of a great
hemlock, his delight and excitement know no bounds. There is a
suppressed frenzy in his very call that every crow in the neighborhood
understands. _Come! come! everybody come!_ he seems to be screaming as
he circles over the tree-top; and within two minutes there are more
crows gathered about that old hemlock than one would believe existed
within miles of the place. I counted over seventy one day, immediately
about a tree in which one of them had found an owl; and I think there
must have been as many more flying about the outskirts that I could
not count.
At such times one can approach very near with a little caution, and
attend, as it were, a crow caucus. Though I have attended a great
many, I have never been able to find any real cause for the
excitement. Those nearest the owl sit about in the trees cawing
vociferously; not a crow is silent. Those on the outskirts are flying
rapidly about and making, if possible, more noise than the inner ring.
The owl meanwhile sits blinking and staring, out of sight in the green
top. Every moment two or three crows leave the ring to fly up close
and peep in, and then go screaming back again, hopping about on their
perches, cawing at every breath, nodding their heads, striking the
branches, and acting for all the world like excited stump speakers.
The din grows louder and louder; fresh voices are coming in every
minute; and the owl, wondering in some vague way if he is the cause of
it all, flies off to some other tree where he can be quiet and go to
sleep. Then, with a great rush and clatter, the crows follow, some
swift old scout keeping close to the owl and screaming all the way to
guide the whole cawing rabble. When the owl stops they gather round
again and go through the same performance more excitedly than before.
So it continues till the owl finds some hollow tree and goes in out of
sight, leaving them to caw themselves tired; or else he finds some
dense pine grove, and doubles about here and there, with that shadowy
noiseless flight of his, till he has thrown them off the track. Then
he flies into the thickest tree he can find, generally outside the
grove where the crows are looking, and sitting close up against the
trunk blinks his great yellow eyes and listens to the racket that goes
sweeping through the grove, peering curiously into every thick pine,
searching everywhere for the lost excitement.
The crows give him up reluctantly. They circle for a few minutes over
the grove, rising and falling with that beautiful, regular motion
that seems like the practice drill of all gregarious birds, and
generally end by collecting in some tree at a distance and _hawing_
about it for hours, till some new excitement calls them elsewhere.
Just why they grow so excited over an owl is an open question. I have
never seen them molest him, nor show any tendency other than to stare
at him occasionally and make a great noise about it. That they
recognize him as a thief and cannibal I have no doubt. But he thieves
by night when other birds are abed, and as they practise their own
thieving by open daylight, it may be that they are denouncing him as
an impostor. Or it may be that the owl in his nightly prowlings
sometimes snatches a young crow off the roost. The great horned owl
would hardly hesitate to eat an old crow if he could catch him
napping; and so they grow excited, as all birds do in the presence of
their natural enemies. They make much the same kind of a fuss over a
hawk, though the latter easily escapes the annoyance by flying swiftly
away, or by circling slowly upward to a height so dizzy that the crows
dare not follow.
In the early spring I have utilized this habit of the crows in my
search for owls' nests. The crows are much more apt to discover its
whereabouts than the most careful ornithologist, and they gather about
it frequently for a little excitement. Once I utilized the habit for
getting a good look at the crows themselves. I carried out an old
stuffed owl, and set it up on a pole close against a great pine tree
on the edge of a grove. Then I lay down in a thick clump of bushes
near by and _cawed_ excitedly. The first messenger from the flock flew
straight over without making any discoveries. The second one found the
owl, and I had no need for further calling. _Haw! haw!_ he cried deep
down in his throat--_here he is! here's the rascal!_ In a moment he
had the whole flock there; and for nearly ten minutes they kept coming
in from every direction. A more frenzied lot I never saw. The _hawing_
was tremendous, and I hoped to settle at last the real cause and
outcome of the excitement, when an old crow flying close over my
hiding place caught sight of me looking out through the bushes. How he
made himself heard or understood in the din I do not know; but the
crow is never too excited to heed a danger note. The next moment the
whole flock were streaming away across the woods, giving the
scatter-cry at every flap.
There is another way in which the crows' love of variety is manifest,
though in a much more dignified way. Occasionally a flock may be
surprised sitting about in the trees, deeply absorbed in watching a
performance--generally operatic--by one of their number. The crow's
chief note is the hoarse _haw, haw_ with which everybody is familiar,
and which seems capable of expressing everything, from the soft
chatter of going to bed in the pine tops to the loud derision with
which he detects all ordinary attempts to surprise him. Certain crows,
however, have unusual vocal abilities, and at times they seem to use
them for the entertainment of the others. Yet I suspect that these
vocal gifts are seldom used, or even discovered, until lack of
amusement throws them upon their own resources. Certain it is that,
whenever a crow makes any unusual sounds, there are always several
more about, _hawing_ vigorously, yet seeming to listen attentively. I
have caught them at this a score of times.
One September afternoon, while walking quietly through the woods, my
attention was attracted by an unusual sound coming from an oak grove,
a favorite haunt of gray squirrels. The crows were cawing in the same
direction; but every few minutes would come a strange cracking
sound--_c-r-r-rack-a-rack-rack_, as if some one had a giant nutcracker
and were snapping it rapidly. I stole forward through the low woods
till I could see perhaps fifty crows perched about in the oaks, all
very attentive to something going on below them that I could not see.
Not till I had crawled up to the brush fence, on the very edge of the
grove, and peeked through did I see the performer. Out on the end of a
long delicate branch, a few feet above the ground, a small crow was
clinging, swaying up and down like a bobolink on a cardinal flower,
balancing himself gracefully by spreading his wings, and every few
minutes giving the strange cracking sound, accompanied by a flirt of
his wings and tail as the branch swayed upward. At every repetition
the crows _hawed_ in applause. I watched them fully ten minutes before
they saw me and flew away.
Several times since, I have been attracted by unusual sounds, and have
surprised a flock of crows which were evidently watching a performance
by one of their number. Once it was a deep musical whistle, much like
the _too-loo-loo_ of the blue jay (who is the crow's cousin, for all
his bright colors), but deeper and fuller, and without the trill that
always marks the blue jay's whistle. Once, in some big woods in Maine,
it was a hoarse bark, utterly unlike a bird call, which made me slip
heavy shells into my gun and creep forward, expecting some strange
beast that I had never before met.
The same love of variety and excitement leads the crow to investigate
any unusual sight or sound that catches his attention. Hide anywhere
in the woods, and make any queer sound you will--play a jews'-harp,
or pull a devil's fiddle, or just call softly--and first comes a blue
jay, all agog to find out all about it. Next a red squirrel steals
down and barks just over your head, to make you start if possible.
Then, if your eyes are sharp, you will see a crow gliding from thicket
to thicket, keeping out of sight as much as possible, but drawing
nearer and nearer to investigate the unusual sound. And if he is
suspicious or unsatisfied, he will hide and wait patiently for you to
come out and show yourself.
Not only is he curious about you, and watches you as you go about the
woods, but he watches his neighbors as well. When a fox is started you
can often trace his course, far ahead of your dogs, by the crows
circling over him and calling _rascal, rascal_, whenever he shows
himself. He watches the ducks and plover, the deer and bear; he knows
where they are, and what they are doing; and he will go far out of his
way to warn them, as well as his own kind, at the approach of danger.
When birds nest, or foxes den, or beasts fight in the woods, he is
there to see it. When other things fail he will even play jokes, as
upon one occasion when I saw a young crow hide in a hole in a pine
tree, and for two hours keep a whole flock in a frenzy of excitement
by his distressed cawing. He would venture out when they were at a
distance, peek all about cautiously to see that no one saw him, then
set up a heart-rending appeal, only to dodge back out of sight when
the flock came rushing in with a clamor that was deafening.
Only one of two explanations can account for his action in this case;
either he was a young crow who did not appreciate the gravity of
crying _wolf, wolf!_ when there was no wolf, or else it was a plain
game of hide-and-seek. When the crows at length found him they chased
him out of sight, either to chastise him, or, as I am inclined now to
think, each one sought to catch him for the privilege of being the
next to hide.
In fact, whenever one hears a flock of crows _hawing_ away in the
woods, he may be sure that some excitement is afoot that will well
repay his time and patience to investigate.
* * * * *
Since the above article was written, some more curious crow-ways have
come to light. Here is one which seems to throw light on the question
of their playing games. I found it out one afternoon last September,
when a vigorous cawing over in the woods induced me to leave the
orchard, where I was picking apples, for the more exciting occupation
of spying on my dark neighbors.
The clamor came from an old deserted pasture, bounded on three sides
by pine woods, and on the fourth by half wild fields that straggled
away to the dusty road beyond. 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. Instantly every crow was on the wing; they shot out from
both sides, many that I had not seen before, all cawing like mad. They
rushed upon the old fellow from the hickory, and for a few moments it
was impossible to make out anything except a whirling, diving rush of
black wings. The din meanwhile was deafening.
Something bright dropped from the excited flock, and a single crow
swooped after it; but I was too much interested in the rush to note
what became of him. The clamor ceased abruptly. The crows, after a
short practice in rising, falling, and wheeling to command, settled in
the pines on both sides of the field, where they had been before. And
there in the hickory was another crow with the same bright, flashing
thing in his beak.
There was a long wait this time, as if for a breathing spell. Then the
solitary crow came skimming down the field again without warning. The
flock surrounded him on the moment, with the evident intention of
hindering his flight as much as possible. They flapped their wings in
his face; they zig-zagged in front of him; they attempted to light on
his back. In vain he twisted and dodged and dropped like a stone.
Wherever he turned he found fluttering wings to oppose his flight. The
first object of the game was apparent: he was trying to reach the goal
of pines opposite the hickory, and the others were trying to prevent
it. Again and again the leader was lost to sight; but whenever the
sunlight flashed from the bright thing he carried, he was certain to
be found in the very midst of a clamoring crowd. Then the second
object was clear: the crows were trying to confuse him and make him
drop the talisman.
[Illustration]
They circled rapidly down the field and back again, near the watcher.
Suddenly the bright thing dropped, reaching the ground before it was
discovered. Three or four crows swooped upon it, and a lively
scrimmage began for its possession. In the midst of the struggle a
small crow shot under the contestants, and before they knew what was
up he was scurrying away to the hickory with the coveted trinket held
as high as he could carry it, as if in triumph at his sharp trick.
The flock settled slowly into the pines again with much _hawing_.
There was evidently a question whether the play ought to be allowed or
not. Everybody had something to say about it; and there was no end of
objection. At last it was settled good-naturedly, and they took places
to watch till the new leader should give them opportunity for another
chase.
There was no doubt left in the watcher's mind by this time as to what
the crows were doing. They were just playing a game, like so many
schoolboys, enjoying to the full the long bright hours of the
September afternoon. Did they find the bright object as they crossed
the pasture on the way from Farmer B's corn-field, and the game so
suggest itself? Or was the game first suggested, and the talisman
brought afterwards? Every crow has a secret storehouse, where he hides
every bright thing he finds. Sometimes it is a crevice in the rocks
under moss and ferns; sometimes the splintered end of a broken branch;
sometimes a deserted owl's nest in a hollow tree; often a crotch in a
big pine, covered carefully by brown needles; but wherever it is, it
is full of bright things--glass, and china, and beads, and tin, and an
old spoon, and a silvered buckle--and nobody but the crow himself
knows how to find it. Did some crow fetch his best trinket for the
occasion, or was this a special thing for games, and kept by the flock
where any crow could get it?
These were some of the interesting things that were puzzling the
watcher when he noticed that the hickory was empty. A flash over
against the dark green revealed the leader. There he was, stealing
along in the shadow, trying to reach the goal before they saw him. A
derisive _haw_ announced his discovery. Then the fun began again, as
noisy, as confusing, as thoroughly enjoyable as ever.
When the bright object dropped this time, curiosity to get possession
of it was stronger than my interest in the game. Besides, the apples
were waiting. I jumped up, scattering the crows in wild confusion; but
as they streamed away I fancied that there was still more of the
excitement of play than of alarm in their flight and clamor.
The bright object which the leader carried proved to be the handle of
a glass cup or pitcher. A fragment of the vessel itself had broken off
with the handle, so that the ring was complete. Altogether it was just
the thing for the purpose--bright, and not too heavy, and most
convenient for a crow to seize and carry. Once well gripped, it would
take a good deal of worrying to make him drop it.
Who first was "it," as children say in games? Was it a special
privilege of the crow who first found the talisman, or do the crows
have some way of counting out for the first leader? There is a
school-house down that same old dusty road. Sometimes, when at play
there, I used to notice the crows stealing silently from tree to tree
in the woods beyond, watching our play, I have no doubt, as I now had
watched theirs. Only we have grown older, and forgotten how to play;
and they are as much boys as ever. Did they learn their game from
watching us at tag, I wonder? And do they know coram, and
leave-stocks, and prisoners' base, and bull-in-the-ring as well? One
could easily believe their wise little black heads to be capable of
any imitation, especially if one had watched them a few times, at work
and play, when they had no idea they were being spied upon.