I have never altogether trusted the birds that sing for their supper. There is something compromising in so much melody before breakfast, something of the court appointment, the pension discreetly solicited beneath a lady’s window. The crow, by contrast, arrives without a recommendation. He lands upon the balustrade in his black provincial grandeur and surveys the estate with the air of a man who has discovered that the present occupants possess neither the deeds nor the breeding.
Here, at last, is sovereignty without the expense of a crown. Observe his toilette: the same black coat for weddings, executions, and ordinary municipal business. No seasonal frivolity; no scarlet waistcoat purchased on credit from the spring. Yet let the light catch him at an angle and there appears, beneath that apparently funereal cloth, a discreet extravagance of blue and violet—as though a bankrupt duke had retained the lining of his finest jacket.
He is not beautiful in the manner prescribed by committees. He has the more durable distinction of appearing entirely unconcerned. Other birds seem to inhabit the world as guests. They flutter, petition, take fright; the least disturbance sends them upstairs. The crow remains on the gatepost. He turns his head. One receives the uncomfortable impression that one has interrupted an inspection.
I admire, particularly, his relations with civilization. We have built our roads, arranged our refuse, established our complicated hours of commerce; he examines the results and finds certain portions serviceable. A magnificent expenditure of public funds has furnished him with a convenient place to stand. Our morning traffic, so grave with individual destinies, passes beneath the consideration of a gentleman deciding what can be made of it.
He has no objection to progress, provided it brings something edible. Nor does he confuse intelligence with obedience—that touching error upon which so many institutions depend. Confronted with an obstacle, he does not immediately seek the relevant department. There is the object; there is the difficulty; there is his beak. Between these three, an arrangement will have to be reached.
And then there is his memory. How soothing it would be to suppose that nature forgives us! That the offended creature flies away, carrying no account of the transaction. The crow makes this pastoral consolation difficult. Beneath his narrow, attentive brow one imagines a little office: names entered, particulars preserved, a file brought forward whenever a certain hat reappears.
