Part 6

Returning to the river bank with a liberal supply of the grass, he first washed the broken leg thoroughly in the stream. Then he smeared the broken place with soft clay, working fibres of grass into it meanwhile, then more clay, grass, and so on in distinct layers until the enlargement was about the size of a butternut. All the time he was pale, but very brave.

It took him fifteen minutes by my jewelled repeater to set the leg. Afterward, for exactly one hour, he sat under an overhanging shrub with the injured member stretched out in front of him. His eyes were closed but his face wore an expression of great suffering. At the end of the hour, which must have been agony to him, he fluttered up into the nearest tree, and with great effort sawed off a small branch which had just the proper crotch. He stripped this of its leaves, put the crotch under his wing, and with this improvised crutch, went back to the cabin.

He lay down on my pillow unrebuked, and I brought him a cup of water to moisten his parched lips. He gave me a thirsty peck, then drank eagerly. Poor Jim! That night, and indeed many a night afterward, my calloused cheek missed one of the firm, small feet to which it had become accustomed.

He used the crutch constantly, and every day he examined his leg with an expression of deep personal concern upon his dark countenance. Its progress seemed to satisfy him and at the proper time he took off the clay cast. The leg seemed as good as ever, though a little stiff, but I could never get Jim to jump over the string again. He seemed afraid of it and shared the same fear regarding anything white. Waving my handkerchief at him would frequently drive him away from me for hours together, and thus I gained time to write, and to put down in my observation ledger priceless records, made on the spot, of the great and glorious panorama of wild life which was passing under my gifted eyes.

Naturally, I was proud of my pet. When I returned to the city, however, and resumed my researches in the library, I learned that this method of setting a fractured limb was well known among the Birds. One of the new books on Natural History described at great length the setting of a Woodcock’s leg by the same means, the operation having taken place under the writer’s own eyes. The only difference was that the Woodcock used no crutch. I learned, further, that hunters often shot Woodcock, Grouse, Snipe, and Quail who had been repaired in the same way. To many of these Birds remnants of the clay casts still clung; others bore only slight evidences of the fracture, which, in knitting, became perfectly smooth.

Every one knows how a Chicken’s leg is sometimes broken, and, in healing, is twisted to one side. This, of course, refers to very young Chickens. I have seldom had one on my own plate whose leg could have been broken by anything short of a butcher’s cleaver. The legs of fliers and the wings of walkers are choice morsels, but of the legs of walkers and the wings of fliers, the less said the better, and the more polite when at the table.

To return, not to our mutton, as the French have it, but to our Crow, as the politicians say.

Jim had a great many friends among his own race, and after they learned not to be afraid of me, they used to call upon him at stated intervals. Often I have gone out in the morning and found my dooryard black with Crows holding a caucus. Some Unnaturalists have it that every Crow is an independent caucus, but I am not prepared to make any positive statements on this point.

It was by watching these assemblies that I learned the Crow language. Every student of Natural History admits that Crows have a way of talking to each other and making themselves understood. It has remained for me, however, to tabulate these utterances in suitable lists, and by the same method pursued by Champollion with the Rosetta Stone, together with the system of cipher-solving elucidated in _The Gold Bug_, arrive at the inner meaning of their language.

A few keen-eyed Little Brothers of the Woods, working independently, have discovered with me that _caw_ is only one syllable of a somewhat complicated speech. They often say _ker-ker_, _ah-ah_, _cluck-cluck_, _haw-haw_, and _ha-ha_, making in addition several other sounds which are difficult to describe adequately in print.

I took the precaution to use a phonograph, and thus secure exact records. The entire subject, treated scientifically, and at the proper scientific length, will be found in my volume published last year, under the title: _The Nature, Habits, and Language of the Crow Indians, as Seen by a Scientific Observer Cooped up by Them on Their Reservation: Together with Exhausting Notes Concerning Their Songs, Ballads, Dramas, Customs, and Crafts_.

My publishers thought the title was a little too long, but I pointed out to them that many scientific works have even longer titles, and that when anybody pays two dollars for a book, it is with the expectation of securing two dollars’ worth of language.

Not to weary the reader with details, and to interest the general public in the more expensive book, I transcribe below a few of the more prominent words of the Crow language.

_Caw_—Has as many uses as the Latin verb _fero_, and the precise meaning depends largely upon the tone of utterance. In a loud, clear, cheerful tone, it means, as nearly as can be expressed: “Good morning, Carrie.”

_Caw_—Fortissimo, means: “Man. Might be dangerous. Keep sharp lookout.”

_Caw-Caw_—In sharp, imperious accents, means: “Man has gun. Fly the coop.”

_Caw-Caw_—In a tone of contempt, means: “Gun is only umbrella. Stay where you are.”

_Haw_—“Horse in off field very sick. Watch.”

_Haw-Haw_—“Donkey instead of horse. Wouldn’t that jar you?”

_Ker_, naturally, means “dog.” _Ker-Ker_ means two dogs. _Haw-Ker_ means travelling salesman or man practising music.

_Ha-Ha_ indicates laughter, as all through the brute creation.

_Cluck_ means Chicken, _Cluck-Cluck_ two Chickens. Two Crows together indicate a Rooster.

_Ah-Ah_ shows deep astonishment, mingled with pain.

_Ker-Cluck_, from its root derivation, would mean _Dog-Chicken_. In other words, a lower form of Chicken, something which is smaller and equally edible. Also, onomatopoetically, a Frog.

_Caw-Ker_ means the best thing of its kind, whatever it may be. Students of philology will note the resemblance to an Aryan word still common among the lower orders of English-speaking peoples.

_Ah-Ker_ means a sore place. Example, a broken leg or aching tooth.

It will be seen that the language is very condensed and in a few syllables may epitomise an entire conversation. For instance:

“_Caw. Caw-Caw. Haw. Ker-Ker. Haw-Haw. Cluck-Cluck. Caw-Ker._” Freely translated, this runs as follows: “Good morning! How do you find yourself this morning? Don’t get excited, that two-legged thing is only a Man with an umbrella. There is a sick Horse in yonder field that I have my weather eye on, also a dead Donkey. Two Dogs are watching, and there are a couple of nice Chickens that appear to be spring broilers, trotting peacefully around the farmyard. The Horse is a Donkey, too; wouldn’t that make you sick? Nevertheless, those two Chickens are corkers and I intend to have them before my feathers turn white with old age and theirs fall out for the same reason.”

From this brief instruction, the intelligent reader will be able to translate the Crow language. Just here, perhaps, I ought to mention the fact that I gave Jim an anæsthetic one day and slit his tongue, hoping that he could speak English. Some of our words, as is well known, are tongue-twisters. Whether it was to spite me or not, I shall never know, but I record the painful fact that Jim never learned any English except my last name. Whenever I did anything that displeased him, he would shriek out “SITDOWN!” in a loud, compelling tone that I invariably and instinctively obeyed. Then, with a merry laugh, he would flutter off over the trees to tell his friends about it.

When a Crow sings, it reminds you of a cornet half full of molasses. They only sing when they are courting, which is extremely fortunate. If I were a lady Crow, wooed with song, I should take vows of eternal celibacy. They may not be saddest when they sing, but other people are.

I shot one of them one day, when they were doing too much singing, and the rest of the company called an indignation meeting on the spot. Having decided that I was the criminal, they sentenced me to have my eyes pecked out and appointed six of their number as executioners. Happily, I had on my spectacles, and when they had broken and eaten the lenses, they were satisfied. That night six more Crows died in great agony from the eating of broken glass. They did not molest me further, but buried their dead comrades with great pomp and ceremony.

Very few observers have ever seen a Crow funeral, but it fell to my lot to be present at this one. It was a bright moonlight night and I crouched behind a stump in a pasture lot, partly screened by the undergrowth that had sprung up around it, and had an unobstructed view of the entire affair.

Sometime during the day, a long, transverse trench had been dug and lined with leaves. The seven corpses, feet upward, were lying on burdock leaves at a distance of about seventeen feet from the trench. A long stem was left on each burdock leaf, and to it was tied a long, stout string which shone whitely in the moonlight. I did not know what it was for, then, but later I understood.

Seven of the oldest and most prominent Crows, at a given signal, advanced to the dead. Each one took the end of a string in his beak and stepped over it in such a way that the cord passed straight under his body. I noted with a thrill of pride that Jim was in the lead.

The rest of the Crows were in tiers a little to the left. At another signal, Jim and his followers began to march, to a low mournful tune produced by the other Crows, swaying their bodies in time to it. In my note-book I hastily jotted it down. It went like this: “_Caw-Caw, Caw-Caw, Caw-Caw, Caw-Caw_,” the first syllable of each foot being heavily accented. It was not until they reached the third measure, which, I noted, had eight feet instead of four, that it dawned upon me that they were marching to the solemn and beautifully appropriate measures of Poe’s wonderful poem, _The Raven_. It was so touching that the tears blinded me, and when I could see again, the procession was well under way.

Shall I ever forget it, I wonder—those stately marchers convoying their dead? Each one of the seven Birds was drawing a large burdock leaf, on which lay the remains of his dead friend. When they reached the trench, the bodies were all laid in, in an orderly row, covered with burdock leaves and then with earth.

The simple ceremony over, they dispersed, silently and solemnly, but it set me to thinking and wondering if, after all, man had any right to kill the lower animals for any reason whatsoever. I was brought, also, to a new comprehension of the law of compensation. I had lost a pair of spectacles, and, in return, I had speedily witnessed another spectacle which was indeed wonderful and which set me upon a lofty height, far above my fellow-observers.

It was a day or two before Jim came back to me. He had a strand of black yarn tied around his left leg which he would not suffer me to touch, and which, at the end of the thirtieth day, he removed of his own accord. For a week or more he was sad, then he gradually chirked up and began to act more like himself. He ate Thrushes’ eggs, tweaked wool off the backs of the farmers’ Sheep, and stole countless small articles out of my cabin.

I came upon his hoard one day in a hollow tree which had been struck by lightning and broken off about eight feet above the ground. He had pebbles, clam shells, strings, my diamond scarf-pin, a bit of the mica from the front door of my stove, two pieces of broken glass, a square of blue glass I had brought to observe an eclipse with, a blue-bottle Fly, a piece of resin, some bits of bright coloured wool, the handle of a china cup, a cordial glass, a choice collection of white Rabbit fur, which he was evidently saving for his nest, and, vanity of vanities! a triangular piece of broken looking-glass, which was carefully laid across the top of the collection. It was the sunlight playing upon this which led me to the spot. I took out my diamond pin and the cordial glass, leaving the other things undisturbed, but the next time I investigated, there was nothing there. He had moved his treasures to some safer place.

Jim Crow had peculiar notions about his eating, being especially fond of ’possum, sweet potatoes, watermelon, fried Chicken, corn bread, corn fritters, and molasses. Seeing that his tastes ran that way, I baked some Johnny-cake on purpose for him. He pecked at it politely, but truth compels me to record the fact that it was very hard—almost too difficult for solution.

At length he took a large piece in his bill, having chiselled it away from the main formation, and flew away slowly. He could not go fast, for the bread was not light, save in colour. Wondering, and quickening my footsteps to a run, I followed him to the river. He selected a place where the current was swift, hovered over it a moment, then dropped the bread squarely in.

I was hurt—I do not deny it, but later developments showed me that I had no reason for it and that Jim had sufficient cause for his action. Keeping his eye on the bread, which, to my surprise, floated, Jim flew down stream, cawing loudly. With nice calculation, as it afterward proved, he sat down on the bank at exactly the right place and waited.

In a few minutes, the bread came ashore, soft and palatable. Jim ate it with great relish, then, seeing me peering at him through the shrubbery, he distinctly laughed, and flew back home again. When I got there, he had soaked the rest of the bread in a pan of milk which I had left in an exposed position, and was finishing up with molasses.

He did a great many things which at first puzzled me, but which I afterward understood. I had taken down his perch, which was merely a branch nailed across one corner of the cabin, thinking to get a fresh one the next time I went out. Days passed, and I forgot it, but Jim called my attention to it in rather a curious way.

I had been fishing one afternoon, returning about five o’clock with a fine string of Fish which I intended to cook for supper. Jim lit on one of them and refused to budge. I picked him up and he pecked my hand so severely that I was glad to put him down. He let me take the other Fish without protest, but camped on this one until bedtime, cawing loudly at intervals of three minutes or less. When at last he flew in to take his accustomed place on my pillow, I picked up the Fish to see if I could solve the mystery, and, in an instant, my quick, active mind began to work. The Fish was a Perch—the only one I had caught—and Jim was doing his best, in his poor weak way, to remind me of my shameful neglect.

The brilliant Bird had his reward, and, that very night, before I slept, I fixed his new perch across his old corner of the cabin. Jim watched me, with something very like a smile upon his face, making sleepy caws of gratitude all the time I was at work. When I went to bed, he tickled my face playfully with his tail and caressed me with his beak, to show his appreciation.

We slept that night as we always did, with Jim’s feet high on my cheek. I did not mind it then, but long afterward, when I went back among the haunts of men, and discovered deep crow’s feet around my eyes, I wished that I had broken him of the habit by any method, no matter how desperate. It added years to my age and made it practically impossible for me to get a position in a telegraph office. Fortunately age does not affect literature. After a man is dead, he may continue in the business and often rank higher than his living competitors. Mr. Plato and Mr. Shakespeare are still formidable rivals of the industrious knights and ladies of the pen.

My knowledge of Jim’s epicurean tastes came about in a strange way. I was preparing our simple repast one noon, when I felt the rush of wings over my head. Before I had time to look up, something dropped with a splash into the pan of bacon I was frying and then, from a distant branch, Jim laughed gleefully.

He had dropped a young Rooster, which he had just killed, into my hot grease. He had made some attempt to take off the feathers but it was not successful, and I removed it, to Jim’s great disgust.

He talked so much and so long that I finally lost track of it, but I had the main idea. He had killed the Rooster not only for the fried Chicken, but to satisfy a personal grudge. I judged from Jim’s remarks, that this young Rooster had crowed over him long enough and had come, by a swift vengeance, to an ignominious end.

We had the Chicken the next day, fried, with bacon and corn fritters, and it was not half bad—rather less than a quarter, I should say, which was all I could expect, since I had no ice and was obliged to keep it over night in a warm climate.

One other observer has found that Crows play games with each other, but he has not specified the games. I have fully tabulated these and have found striking resemblances to the games of children. Personally, with my own eyes, I have seen a flock of Crows playing “Follow the Leader,” “Puss in the Corner,” “London Bridge,” “Tag,” “Prisoner’s Base,” and “Drop the Handkerchief.” The handkerchief was a bit of white wool unwillingly contributed by some Sheep, a ball of hair from a Hare or Rabbit, or a compact cluster of feathers from someone who had been called down.

Early in the Summer, Jim moulted. It was pathetic to see him going about without his clothing, and I made him a red flannel jacket, such as the kind ladies in _Cranford_ made for the Cow who fell into the lime. The jacket and a good hair tonic, rubbed in thoroughly about every other day, put him well in advance of the season, and long before the other Crows had their new clothes, Jim was strutting about in the full glory of his, as proud as a Peacock and fully as impertinent. He always cherished the red flannel jacket. It hung from his perch for a while, where I was not allowed to touch it, and then he flew off into the woods with it, to pack it away, I suppose, with his other treasures.

It grieves me to the heart to write of the end of Jim, that brave, gay, mischievous Bird, who shared my bed and board for a Summer, and then met the universal fate of the wild. The end of a wild animal is always a tragedy and the only way to avoid writing tragedy is either to stop long before you get through, or not to begin. I cannot stop before I get through, on account of a habit I contracted when I was writing for the magazines at a cent a word, and, moreover, I need the royalty on this book. A big book can be sold for more than a little one, every time. If you don’t believe me, go and price a dictionary. The cheaper books are merely a part of the dictionary arranged in another order.

Hitherto, I have failed to mention the fact that Jim was married. I knew nothing of it until he was also a parent, and I never knew how much of a parent he was, for he was singularly uncommunicative on the subject and his nest was upon an inaccessible height. He stole an empty bottle out of my cabin and kept it in a crotch of a tree near by, with the cork which belonged to it tied to the neck by a string. Jim was a cautious Bird. On nights when I left the pan of milk outdoors, Jim would not sleep with me. When I discovered this, I set myself to figure out the connection.

I left the pan of milk in an open space in the yard one bright moonlight night, and, as I half expected, Jim refused to share my pillow. I went to bed as usual, but in a few minutes got up and watched him from a secluded position.

He walked around the pan of milk a few times, cawing under his breath in an important, businesslike way, then flew off for the bottle. He returned with it, and filled it from the pan, using his beak for the purpose, and tilting the pan with his foot when the milk got shallow.

When the bottle was full, he pounded in the cork, grasped it in his claws, and flew away with it towards his nest. I surmised then that Jim was so much of a parent that Mrs. Jim did not have milk enough for all the little ones, and the husband and father was compelled to forage for the balance. Deeply touched, I left a large can of malted milk tablets on the window-sill, open. Within two days, they were all gone.

It was Hoot-Mon, the great Owl, who put an end to Jim. Between the Owls and the Crows there is lifelong enmity. An Owl will attack a Crow at night and a Crow will attack an Owl in the daytime. I knew Hoot-Mon, of course—every Little Brother of the Woods knows Hoot-Mon,—but an article on him had not as yet been ordered, and so I made no special study of him.

It was my fault, too. After Jim was asleep, I put the pan of milk outside for fear it would sour. When he woke and missed it, he scratched my face violently. Trembling with rage, I put him out, saying, as I did so: “You miserable, low-down, black beast, I wish I might never see you again!”

Unexpectedly my wish was granted. In my dooryard, in the morning, when the blood-red sun rose out of the mists of dawn, I found poor Jim, torn and mangled and irretrievably dead, lying beside the empty milk-pan.

He had been slain by Hoot-Mon, who, after eating as much as he could, had sailed away with beak and claws dripping, to wait for darkness and further feasting.

Even if Jim had not been so very dead I could not have saved him, for, in the words of a rival Unnaturalist, “there are no hospitals for sick Crows.”

Poor Jim Crow! Time has softened your misdemeanours with its kindly touch and my memory of you is a pleasant one!

HOOP-LA

When you meet a Fox, there are nine surprises. Five of them are his and the other four are yours. You may be looking for him, but he is not looking for you; consequently, he is more surprised than you are.

The following Summer, when I went to my cabin, I found it occupied. By this time I should have been accustomed to such things, but, strangely enough, I was not. To make it worse, the new occupant was not one I could turn out, being a relation. He had been a distant relation hitherto, but was now a near one.

Our family has intermarried a great deal with the descendants of European royalties, and Uncle Antonio was of the great and well-known family of the Cæsars, who, if my readers will remember, used to rank high in Rome. The line of descent was somewhat blurred, it is true, but Uncle had a Roman nose and was given to roaming about the country.

By profession, he was a musician—one of those rarely talented people whose genius is infinitely above such minor details as technique. Rubenstein, according to his biographers, used to make bad mistakes in reading his own music, and nearly everyone who has played him has, at some time or other, followed in his gifted footsteps.

Uncle was another Rubenstein, as regards the mistakes. His soul, lifted above all mundane things, soared to meet the thought of the composer, and his fingers stumbled over the keys. This would not have bothered some people, but Uncle was sensitive and it annoyed him, so at length he had an instrument especially made to suit his own needs.

It was an organ of the regulation type, small and compact, yet with a glorious volume of tone that would have delighted Wagner. Connected with the interior by a wonderfully scientific system of levers, was the motive power. The superior form of the instrument made possible some changes in the manner of playing it.