  Instead of sleeping under the fallen tree in Cranberry Swamp, where the fleas had become too lively for comfort, Red Ben had made it a practice to pick out a new place nearly every day. This time he chose a laurel clump on the top of Oak Ridge. There was an advantage in this high bed; he could keep an eye on Ben Slown’s farm, whence he now expected trouble of some kind to come. He had lately paid special attention to the danger signals of all the wild creatures, and on them relied for first warning, so he curled up in his usual tight ball, with eyes closed, but ears uncovered to take in every sound. The “check, check” of red wing blackbirds, the rasp of brown thrashers, the screech of sparrow hawks and the rustlings of a great wood full of happy life went through his ears unheeded. The bark of Red Squirrel made him look up for a moment, to make sure that the little fellow was only talking to his mate; so also did the whirring of a grouse that some prowling hunter had scared up nearby; but during most of the time he could doze. From a pine, near the fields below, came an occasional reassuring “caw” from Jim Crow, who was keeping guard while the crow flock fed in the sheep pasture. Everything seemed all right to him. To be sure there were two red-tail hawks soaring high in the sky, but they were not worth bothering over at that distance. All at once, however, a man, followed by dogs, came from behind the farm buildings. “Caw, caw!” called the old crow sharply, to tell the others that something suspicious was in sight. A moment later he recognized Ben Slown and instantly flew out of his tree with the real danger call. “Cawr, cawr, cawr!” repeated again and again, as the other crows flew up too and scattered in the direction of the Barrens. The first call awoke Red Ben, and the second brought him to his feet in a bound. All he needed was the sight of the crows, flying towards the Barrens, to convince him that it was Ben Slown who was coming. Only the approach of a well known gun carrier could make those wise birds leave the neighborhood of the Ridge like that. He watched the farmer and his three dogs, then trotted down the far side of the Ridge, crossed Cranberry Swamp and entered the Barrens. There was a definite plan in all this. Gray Fox had freed him from Ben Slown’s dogs once before, now he could do it again. Red Ben knew the old bully’s range rather well, and wasted no time in reaching the most likely thicket. Sure enough, the smell of Gray Fox was there in plenty, the smell Red Ben had such reason to fear and dislike. He sneaked cautiously up wind and spied the sleeping fox curled up under a pepper bush. He stood there undecided what to do. It was dangerous to trifle with Gray Fox. But matters were decided for him by an eddy of wind which carried his own scent into the thicket. Gray Fox’s nose twitched; he looked up, recognized Red Ben and sprang to his feet with a snarl. Back dashed the young fox, and after him came the angry gray. Through the woods they sped towards Cranberry Swamp where, Red Ben felt sure, the farmer was already hunting for him. The gray bully was bent on revenge this time; he would teach the red upstart a thing or two! But just as they neared the log that crossed Goose Creek, the bay of a hound floated through the woods from straight ahead. Red Ben dashed across the log, but Gray Fox hung back and finally sneaked away to hide. And so it happened that when the black and white hound, Shep and the fox terrier crossed the log on Red Ben’s trail from the Ridge, they found the fresh, straight-away track of Gray Fox, and followed it. While Ben Slown sat on the Ridge waiting for a shot and while Red Ben lay comfortably in the Swamp, Gray Fox, rage in his heart, was leading the dog chorus on a wild chase far into the Barrens, to a deep hole he knew about. The entrance was too narrow to admit the large dogs, and the little fox terrier could be held at bay. It was well for Gray Fox that this hole was so far from the Ridge that Ben Slown could not hear the hound baying there. All this time Jim Crow was keeping his eye on the whereabouts of the farmer. Silently he would circle the Ridge, high over the trees, until he saw the crouching figure, then he would alight in a tall tree at some distance in the Swamp and by his “cawr, cawr, cawr,” keep back all the crows that started to return in the direction of the Ridge. By watching him Red Ben, too, knew where the enemy was lying in wait. When later Jim Crow saw the disgusted farmer start for his home, he flew joyously over the woods spreading the news with a “caw—caw—caw.” Soon afterwards he drew all the crows to the meadow by calling as rapidly as he could get out the sounds, “Cehr, cehr, cehr, cehr, cehr.” Jim Crow’s language was becoming well known to Red Ben. Before the sun rose each morning, Jim would talk to the other crows. “Caw-caw,” he would begin. Another would answer, “Caw-cehr, cehr, cehr,” and then from all over the Ridge would come other caws of various kinds. No two crows spoke at once. If Jim had something important to tell, all the rest listened. By the time the sun was nearly showing above the horizon the band had started towards the feeding ground. Usually this was in one of the fields, but visits to the river flats and to cranberry bogs were not uncommon. If a large hawk, or owl, was discovered by a crow, he called, “Caw, caw, caw, caw, caw,” and brought to the spot every full grown crow within hearing. One after another would then dive at the big bird and harass him until he escaped from the neighborhood. Once when Red Ben had discovered a dead crow and had pulled it out for inspection, another crow, flying over, caught sight of the apparently murdered bird and shot down with a furious “Cahrrrr,” which others, appearing from all sides at this harsh call, repeated until the woods resounded. Sometimes a crow would vary his caws with a melodious “Kruck—kruck,” which resembled one of Blue Jay’s favorite notes, but was much louder. As Red Ben now rolled himself into the usual tight little ball, for sleep, he heard once more the joyous “Caw—caw—caw” of the old black sentinel and, with that ringing in his ears, contentedly closed his eyes. |
|
