e fluff of his mother's breast.
Oh! well he sleeps, for she folds him tight--
Safe from the owl that flies by night.

Oh! far her wings have fluttered away,
Nor does it matter in the day.
But keep me, pray, till again 't is light,
Safe from the owl that flies by night.

Thus, long after he would have been weaned, for his own good, from such
care, had he remained wild, Corbie, the tame crow, claimed protection
with cunning, cuddling ways that taught the Blue-eyed Girl and her
brother and the Grown-Ups, too, something about crows that many people
never even guess. For all their rollicking care-free ways, there is,
hidden beneath their black feathers, an affection very tender and
lasting; and when they are given the friendship of humans, they find
touching ways of showing how deep their trust can be.

Before the summer was over, Corbie had as famous a collection as his
great grandfather. The children knew where he kept it, and used
sometimes to climb up to look at his playthings. They never disturbed
them except to take out the knitting-needle, thimble, spoons, or things
like that, which were needed in the house. The bright penny someone had
given him, the shiny nails, the brass-headed tacks, the big white
feather, the yellow marble, all the bits of colored glass, and an old
watch, they left where he put them; for they thought that he loved his
things, or he would not have hidden them together; and they thought, and
so do I, that he had as much right to his treasures to look at and care
for as the Brown-eyed Boy had to his collection of pretty stones and the
Blue-eyed Girl to the flowers in her wild garden.

After his feathers were grown, in the spring, Corbie had been really
good-looking in his black suit; but by the first of September he was
homely again. His little side-feather moustache dropped out at the top
of his beak, so that his nostrils were uncovered as they had been when
he was very young. The back of his head was nearly bald, and his neck
and breast were ragged and tattered.

Yes, Corbie was molting, and he had a very unfinished sort of look while
the new crop of paint-brushes sprouted out all over him. But it was
worth the discomforts of the molt to have the new feather coat, all
shiny black; and Corbie was even handsomer than he had been during the
summer, when cold days came, and he needed his warm thick suit.

At this time all the wild crows that had nested in that part of th