The Sugar Loaf hill stands alone in the Don Valley. It is still covered
with woods that join with those of Castle Frank, a quarter of a mile
off in the woods, between the two hills, is a pine-tree in whose top
is a deserted hawk's nest. Every Toronto school-boy knows the nest, and,
excepting that I had once shot a black squirrel on its edge, no one had
ever seen a sign of life about it. There it was year after year, ragged
and old, and falling to pieces. Yet, strange to tell, in all that time
it never did drop to pieces, like other old nests.
One morning in May I was out at gray dawn, and stealing gently through
the woods, whose dead leaves were so wet that no rustle was made. I
chanced to pass under the old nest, and was surprised to see a black
tail sticking over the edge. I struck the tree a smart blow, off flew a
crow, and the secret was out. I had long suspected that a pair of
crows nested each year about the pines, but now I realized that it was
Silverspot and his wife. The old nest was theirs, and they were too wise
to give it an air of spring-cleaning and housekeeping each year. Here
they had nested for long, though guns in the hands of men and boys
hungry to shoot crows were carried under their home every day. I never
surprised the old fellow again, though I several times saw him through
my telescope.
One day while watching I saw a crow crossing the Don Valley with
something white in his beak. He flew to the mouth of the Rosedale Brook,
then took a short flight to the Beaver Elm. There he dropped the white
object, and looking about gave me a chance to recognize my old friend
Silverspot. After a minute he picked up the white thing--a shell--and
walked over past the spring, and here, among the docks and the
skunk-cabbages, he unearthed a pile of shells and other white, shiny
things. He spread them out in the sun, turned them over, turned them one
by one in his beak, dropped them, nestled on them as though they were
eggs, toyed with them and gloated over them like a miser. This was his
hobby, his weakness. He could not have explained why he enjoyed them,
any more than a boy can explain why he collects postage-stamps, or a
girl why she prefers pearls to rubies; but his pleasure in them was very
real, and after half an hour he covered them all, including the new
one, with earth and leaves, and flew off. I went at once to the spot
and examined the hoard; there was about a hatfull in all, chiefly white
pebbles, clam-shells, and some bits of tin, but there was also the
handle of a china cup, which must have been the gem of the collection.
That was the last time I saw them. Silverspot knew that I had found his
treasures, and he removed them at once; where, I never knew.
During the space that I watched him so closely he had many little
adventures and escapes. He was once severely handled by a sparrowhawk,
and often he was chased and worried by kingbirds. Not that these did him
much harm, but they were such noisy pests that he avoided their company
as quickly as possible, just as a grown man avoids a conflict with a
noisy and impudent small boy. He had some cruel tricks, too. He had a
way of going the round of the small birds' nests each morning to eat the
new laid eggs, as regularly as a doctor visiting his patients. But we
must not judge him for that, as it is just what we ourselves do to the
hens in the barnyard.
His quickness of wit was often shown. One day I saw him flying down the
ravine with a large piece of bread in his bill. The stream below him was
at this time being bricked over as a sewer. There was one part of two
hundred yards quite finished, and, as he flew over the open water just
above this, the bread fell from his bill, and was swept by the current
out of sight into the tunnel. He flew down and peered vainly into
the dark cavern, then, acting upon a happy thought, he flew to the
downstream end of the tunnel, and awaiting the reappearance of the
floating bread, as it was swept onward by the current, he seized and
bore it off in triumph.
Silverspot was a crow of the world. He was truly a successful crow. He
lived in a region that, though full of dangers, abounded with food. In
the old, unrepaired nest he raised a brood each year with his wife,
whom, by the way, I never could distinguish, and when the crows again
gathered together he was their acknowledged chief.
The reassembling takes place about the end of June--the young crows with
their bob-tails, soft wings, and falsetto voices are brought by their
parents, whom they nearly equal in size, and introduced to society at
the old pine woods, a woods that is at once their fortress and college.
Here they find security in numbers and in lofty yet sheltered perches,
and here they begin their schooling and are taught all the secrets of
success in crow life, and in crow life the least failure does not simply
mean begin again. It means death.
The first week or two after their arrival is spent by the young ones in
getting acquainted, for each crow must know personally all the others in
the band. Their parents meanwhile have time to rest a little after the
work of raising them, for now the youngsters are able to feed themselves
and roost on a branch in a row, just like big folks.
In a week or two the moulting season comes. At this time the old crows
are usually irritable and nervous, but it does not stop them from
beginning to drill the youngsters, who, of course, do not much enjoy the
punishment and nagging they get so soon after they have been mamma's own
darlings. But it is all for their good, as the old lady said when she
skinned the eels, and old Silverspot is an excellent teacher. Sometimes
he seems to make a speech to them. What he says I cannot guess, but
judging by the way they receive it, it must be extremely witty. Each
morning there is a company drill, for the young ones naturally drop into
two or three squads according to their age and strength. The rest of the
day they forage with their parents.
When at length September comes we find a great change. The rabble of
silly little crows have begun to learn sense. The delicate blue iris of
their eyes, the sign of a fool-crow, has given place to the dark brown
eye of the old stager. They know their drill now and have learned sentry
duty. They have been taught guns and traps and taken a special course in
wireworms and green-corn. They know that a fat old farmer's wife is much
less dangerous, though so much larger, than her fifteen-year-old son,
and they can tell the boy from his sister. They know that an umbrella is
not a gun, and they can count up to six, which is fair for young crows,
though Silverspot can go up nearly to thirty. They know the smell of
gunpowder and the south side of a hemlock-tree, and begin to plume
themselves upon being crows of the world. They always fold their wings
three times after alighting, to be sure that it is neatly done. They
know how to worry a fox into giving up half his dinner, and also that
when the kingbird or the purple martin assails them they must dash into
a bush, for it is as impossible to fight the little pests as it is for
the fat apple-woman to catch the small boys who have raided her basket.
All these things do the young crows know; but they have taken no lessons
in egg-hunting yet, for it is not the season. They are unacquainted with
clams, and have never tasted horses' eyes, or seen sprouted corn, and
they don't know a thing about travel, the greatest educator of all. They
did not think of that two months ago, and since then they have thought
of it, but have learned to wait till their betters are ready.
September sees a great change in the old crows, too, Their moulting is
over. They are now in full feather again and proud of their handsome
coats. Their health is again good, and with it their tempers are
improved. Even old Silverspot, the strict teacher, becomes quite jolly,
and the youngsters, who have long ago learned to respect him, begin
really to love him.
He has hammered away at drill, teaching them all the signals and words
of command in use, and now it is a pleasure to see them in the early
morning.
'Company I!' the old chieftain would cry in crow, and Company I would
answer with a great clamor.
'Fly!' and himself leading them, they would all fly straight forward.
'Mount!' and straight upward they turned in a moment.
'Bunch!' and they all massed into a dense black flock.
'Scatter!' and they spread out like leaves before the wind.
'Form line!' and they strung out into the long line of ordinary flight.
'Descend!' and they all dropped nearly to the ground.
'Forage!' and they alighted and scattered about to feed, while two of
the permanent sentries mounted duty--one on a tree to the right, the
other on a mound to the far left. A minute or two later Silverspot
would cry out, 'A man with a gun!' The sentries repeated the cry and
the company flew at once in open order as quickly as possible toward the
trees. Once behind these, they formed line again in safety and returned
to the home pines.
Sentry duty is not taken in turn by all the crows, but a certain number
whose watchfulness has been often proved are the perpetual sentries, and
are expected to watch and forage at the same time. Rather hard on them
it seems to us, but it works well and the crow organization is admitted
by all birds to be the very best in existence.
Finally, each November sees the troop sail away southward to learn new
modes of life, new landmarks and new kinds of food, under the guidance
of the everwise Silverspot.