“Got him out of his nest in a post-oak. Dey was more of ’em, but I couldn’t git ony dis one. I’m a-gwine to raise him if mammy’ll let me. But I mout sell him, if I git a good chance.” The opportunity was not to be lost, and in a very few moments Ikey was trudging homeward with a handful of coppers and two nickels--all the change we could raise among us, and we proudly carried our new-found treasure to the house. “Mercy on us!” cried mamma, holding up her hands. “What on earth have you got there?” “A crow,” we told her. “And we’re going to tame him, and teach him to talk.” “Nonsense!” said mamma. “You don’t suppose I’ll have a _crow_ about the house, to kill the young chickens and eat up the eggs!” But we begged and pleaded, till at last she gave her consent to let us keep it. “It’ll be a great torment,” grumbled grandma. “It’s a _young_ bird, and you’ll have to feed it like a baby.” But we did not mind the trouble. Indeed, it was more of an amusement to us to feed our pet on scraps of meat and bits of bread. It opened its mouth so wide, and cried “Caw-aw-aw!” in such a satisfactory way. Ikey had instructed us as to the manner of feeding. “Jess you peck it on de head, an’ it’ll open its mouth like it does fur de ole birds,” he explained. And we found his advice was good. We named our pet “Jack-a-Dandy,” and he grew and throve so much that he was soon able to procure his own food, which consisted of crickets and other insects. He was so tame that we could allow him perfect freedom, without any fear of his deserting us. As he grew older, he used frequently to fly into the top of a tall post-oak near the front door, from which he would circle around and around the house, then alight on the ground, and come hopping in the door, with a cheerful “caw! caw!” as if asserting that there was no place like home. “He’s better than Dick Hardy’s tame squirrel,” Tom used to say, “for that has to be kept in a cage.” “And Bob Rooney’s pet coon has to be fastened by a chain,” said Josie. “But Jack-a-Dandy is as free as we are.” But mamma was not particularly pleased with Jack, and grandma continued to grumble over his misdemeanors, especially when he would rummage in her work-basket, and carry off her silver thimble or bright steel bodkin. “He’s a troublesome creature,” she would declare, “and if I had _my_ way, he’d get his neck wrung.” But we kept a good watch on our favorite, to keep him from getting into mischief. We had used our best endeavors to teach him to talk, but he was a poor scholar, and could not even learn to pronounce his own name. Still we loved him, and continued to take his part against his enemies. Papa had never said much, one way or the other, about Jack, though he was not very favorably disposed toward the race of crows. But when the spring planting was done, he took sides with the opposition. “If your tame thief pulls up my corn, I’ll shoot him,” he declared.