"Well," said Uncle Andy at last, "perhaps you're not so _very_ far off,
this time. If I couldn't be an eagle, or a hawk, or a wild goose, or
one of those big-horned owls that we hear every night, or a
humming-bird, then I'd rather be a crow than most. A crow has got
enemies, of course, but then he's got brains, so that he knows how to
make a fool of most of his enemies. And he certainly does manage to
get a lot of fun out of life, taking it all in all, except when the owl
comes gliding around his roosting places in the black nights, or an
extra bitter midwinter frost catches him after a rainy thaw."

He paused and drew hard on his pipe, with that far-away look in his
eyes which the Babe had learned to regard as the forerunner to a story.
There were some interesting questions to ask, of course; but though
bursting with curiosity as to why anyone should find it better to be a
wild goose, or even a hummingbird, than a crow, the Babe sternly
repressed himself. He would ask those questions by and by, that he
promised himself. But he had learned that to speak inopportunely was
sometimes to make Uncle Andy change his mind and shut up like an
oyster. He was determined that he would not open his mouth till the
story should be well under way, till his uncle should be himself too
much interested to be willing to stop. And then, to his horror, just
as he was recording this sagacious resolution in his mind, he heard
himself demanding:

"But why after a rainy thaw?"

It was out before he could choke it back. There was nothing for him to
do but stick to it and gaze at his uncle with disarming innocence.
Uncle Andy turned upon him a glance of slow contumely.