Mr. Crow choked. Perhaps it was as well that he could not speak just
then. He coughed and spluttered and swallowed and swayed back and
forth, trying to get his breath. And he had begun, at last to feel
better, when--_biff!_--something struck him again and all but knocked
him over.

The stranger gave a shrill whistle.

"I _threw_ something that time!" he jeered.

Old Mr. Crow felt that he had been terribly insulted. He looked as
dignified as he could. And he would have turned his back on the
stranger--had he dared.

While he was wondering whether he had better fly away, or stay and
quarrel with the rude person who had pelted him, the boorish stranger
leaped from the tall tree into the smaller one where Mr. Crow was
sitting. Then, dropping nimbly from limb to limb, with the help of his
hands and his feet and his tail, he stopped at last when he had
reached Mr. Crow's level.

One thing was certain. The stranger was bold as brass. He looked Mr.
Crow up and down. And then he said:

"You're a gay old bird! What's your name?"

Now, no doubt some people would have been angry. But Mr. Crow rather
liked to be called gay, because he couldn't help looking solemn. And
most people knew he was very old. And everybody was aware he was a
bird. So he said hoarsely: