"_Becaws_----" said Mr. Crow. And then he corrected himself once more.
"Because," he replied, "no 'possum ever came so far North as this.
I've spent a good many winters in the South, and I ought to know. And
besides," he added, "although a 'possum can hang by his tail, there
never was one that could throw a stick or a stone. And I ought to
know, for I've spent a good many winters in the South, where the
'possums live."

Everybody had to admit that old Mr. Crow must know what he was talking
about. And people began to feel rather foolish when they realized how
near they had been to letting those two rascals--Peter Mink and Tommy
Fox--deceive them.

As for old Mr. Crow, having persuaded his neighbors to his way of
thinking, he began to be more pleased with himself than ever. And he
spent a good deal of time sitting in a tall tree near the cornfield,
with his head on one side, hoping that his friends would notice how
wise he looked.

He was engaged in that agreeable pastime one afternoon
when--_thump!_--something struck the limb on which he was perched.

Mr. Crow gave a squawk and a jump. And then he glanced quickly toward
the ground.

There was no one anywhere in sight. So Mr. Crow looked somewhat silly.
For a moment he had thought that Johnnie Green had thrown something at
him. But he saw at once that he was mistaken. Of course it could have
been nothing more than a dead branch falling.