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.