was swept onward by the current, he seized and bore it off in
triumph.

Silverspot was a crow of the world. He was truly a successful
crow. He lived in a region that, though full of dangers, abounded
with food. In the old, unrepaired nest lie raised a brood each year
with his wife, whom, by the way, I never could distinguish, and
when the crows again gathered together he was their
acknowledged chief.

The reassembling takes place about the end of June-- the young
crows with their bob-tails, soft wings, and falsetto voices are
brought by their parents, whom they nearly equal in size, and
introduced to society at the old pine woods, a woods that is at once
their fortress and college. Here they find security in numbers and
in lofty yet sheltered perches, and here they begin their schooling
and are taught all the secrets of success in crow life, and in crow
life the least failure does not simply mean begin again. It means
death.

The first week or two after their arrival is spent by the young ones
in getting acquainted, for each crow must know personally all the
others in the band. Their parents meanwhile have time to rest a
little after the work of raising them, for now the youngsters are
able to feed themselves and roost on a branch in a row, just like
big folks.

In a week or two the moulting season comes. At this time the old
crows are usually irritable and nervous, but it does not stop them
from beginning to drill the youngsters, who, of course, do not