It was a clear, crisp clay about the middle of September. The sky was clear as though Dame Nature had swept it with a broom. The air was fragrant with ripe fruit and dead leaves. The lap of Mother Nature was filled to overflowing with the good things of earth. Well she had redeemed the promises of spring and summer. It was a day to make the heart glad and one to remember when the snow lay white on the fields.
It was the day of the crow convention. The forty-fifth division of the Crow's Association of North America were having their annual convention in Farmer Brown's sugar orchard. I presume that every black rogue of them thought the day had been made especially for him.
Ever since early morning crow scouts had been flying across the country assembling the
