“The alderman thought the gardener very stupid, and every time he went round his garden he looked particularly at the barley plot. It grew and flourished, and as summer came in it shot into ear, and the alderman said to the gardener, ‘You’re all wrong, John. You never saw a finer, healthier, more promising crop of barley in your life.’ “‘That’s quite true, sir,’ said the gardener; ‘but mark my word, sir, you’ll never get a bushel of barley out of this plot.’ “The alderman was quite exasperated with the gardener, and went away saying, ‘You’re a fool, John, that’s all.’ The weather grew hot, and when the alderman went home on Saturday, the barley looked quite ripe, and he ordered John with much triumph to cut it on Monday. “Now, the alderman, after his good dinner on Sunday, got an extra good Sunday nap in his arm-chair, and very cross was he to be woke up out of the sweetest sleep by somebody, and to see John, the gardener, standing in his Sunday suit before him, and with his hat in his hand. “‘Hang it, John,’ said he, ‘you are getting more stupid than ever. Why do you come in and wake me up in this manner?’ “‘I beg your worship’s pardon,’ said John, ‘but I want you to come into the garden, and see a sight.’ “‘Be hanged to your sights!’ said the alderman; ‘what is it? Can’t you say what it is?’ “‘I can’t exactly say, sir,’ said John. ‘I’d rather your worship saw it yourself. You don’t see such a sight in a barley-plot every day.’ “At the mention of the barley, up jumped the alderman with a very red face, and nearly fell on the floor, for his legs were asleep yet; but, when he got a little right, out he went. “‘Come quietly,’ said John, ‘as quietly as possible;’ and he led him along a grass-walk, and begged him not to speak, nor even to cough, or he would spoil all. At last, from under cover of the trees, he points, and the alderman, to his astonishment and consternation, saw the oak tree in the middle of the barley plot as black as his hat, all over with rooks, and the barley under was as black as his hat too. There were thousands and thousands, and they were all as silent as so many undertakers at a funeral. The alderman could stand it no longer, but out he rushed and shouted—Shoo! and up went the rooks with such a sough, and a whistle of wings, and a cacawing, that was enough to deafen a cataract itself. “‘It is that cursed old crow,’ said the gardener, ‘that I seed perched on the tree yesterday morning at six o’clock when I came to my work. I knew he would go and tell all the crows round the country what a pretty barley-plot your worship had got here. I know them black gentlemen of old, and I’ve been expecting him some time.’ “‘Then why didn’t you shoot him?’ said the alderman in a great rage. “‘Ha! shoot him!’ said the gardener. ‘I must cotch him first, and plug his nostrils up, for he can smell powder a mile off. But it is just what I said—it is all up with the barley.’