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'Forage! and they alighted and scattered about to feed, while two of the permanent sentries mounted duty one on a tree to the right, the other on a mound to the far left. A minute or two later Silverspot would cry out, 'A man with a gun! The sentries repeated the cry and the company flew at once in open order as quickly as possible toward the trees.
He flew down and peered vainly into the dark cavern, then, acting upon a happy thought, he flew to the downstream end of the tunnel, and awaiting the reappearance of the floating bread, as it 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.
I went at once to the spot and examined the hoard; there was about a hatfull in all, chiefly white pebbles, clam-shells, and some bits of tin, but there was also the handle of a china cup, which must have been the gem of the collection. That was the last time I saw them. Silverspot knew that I had found his treasures, and he removed them at once; where, I never knew.
Each year he came with his troop, and for about six weeks took up his abode on the hill. Each morning thereafter the crows set out in three bands to forage. One band went southeast to Ashbridge's Bay. One went north up the Don, and one, the largest, went northwestward up the ravine. The last, Silverspot led in person. Who led the others I never found out.
Very soon the first bluebird came flying over and warbled as he flew 'The spring is coming. The sun kept gaining, and early one day in the dark of the Wakening Moon of March there was a loud 'Caw, caw, and old Silverspot, the king-crow, came swinging along from the south at the head of his troops and officially announced
I had out little black mare with the white star on her forehead, and a shining brand-new buggy and I was the proudest fellow in the world, barring none. I suppose our grandson will be taking his sweetheart out quite casually for an evening 'fly' in his aeroplane." "An aeroplane won't be as nice as little Silverspot was," said Anne.
I turned over the remains, and by chance unburied the head then started with an exclamation of sorrow. Alas! It was the head of old Silverspot. His long life of usefulness to his tribe was over slain at last by the owl that he had taught so many hundreds of young crows to beware of. The old nest on the Sugar Loaf is abandoned now.
He flew to the mouth of the Rosedale Brook, then took a short flight to the Beaver Elm. There he dropped the white object, and looking about gave inc a chance to recognize my old friend Silverspot. After a minute he picked up the white thing a shell and walked over past the spring, and here, among the docks and the skunk-cabbages, he unearthed a pile of shells and other white, shiny things.
They know that a fat old farmer's wife is much less dangerous, though so much larger, than her fifteen-year-old son, and they can tell the boy from his sister. They know that an umbrella is not a gun, and they can count up to six, which is fair for young crows, though Silverspot can go up nearly to thirty.
They were flying very low to be out of the wind, and would have to rise a little to clear the bridge on which I was. Silverspot saw me standing there, and as I was closely watching him he didn't like it. He checked his flight and called out, 'Be on your guard, and rose much higher in the air.
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