Sweeter than. . .

          High above the top of old Caney the crow circled and wove the signs of his passage through the strings of the wind. Far, far below him the thin, black ribbon that was the Tug Fork of the Big Sandy River tickled the toes of the Appalachian Mountains as it flowed toward an eventual rendezvous with the Ohio River.

         Oh, this part of my Kentucky is as pretty as a night and a day spent in the Garden of Eden, thought the crow. All of that down there belongs to me, he thought as he flew. A song began to rise up in his heart as he banked toward the left, caught the tip of a rushing by updraft and was hurled rapidly toward the ancient limb of the red oak tree he was aiming for. His happiness flew swiftly beside him, and presently he began to sing: Black crow, I hear her calling...


          In the next second the crow sat silently on the edge of the cornfield his grandfather had shown him the way to; he had never tasted this thing called corn, but directly if the girl his grandfather had spoken of failed to make an appearance, he was going to get himself a belly full. Just as he had cawed off that last second, lifted himself to his toes and was preparing to flap himself into the air, he spotted her. She was everything he had been told of and she was looking right at him with those pretty blue eyes of hers.

          Directly, her voice came a floating across those rows of corn. Oh, it was sweeter than a quart of strawberry jam and a bucket full of pea blossom honey! It came a floating down out of the sky, and he heard the words she was singing. Pretty crow, pretty crow, won't you fly on over and get yourself some corn? She started in a shaking that bucket she was holding in her left hand, and all the time she was singing, Pretty crow, pretty crow, won't you fly on over and get yourself some corn?

          Now the crow, why, he was the most cautious of all the birds in the skies of Kentucky, but he had always been partial to a girl with blue eyes and a voice made for the harps of heaven. He looked at her more closely as she shook the bucket and of a sudden, a thought came up into his head as her image danced in his mind. Grandfather! he gasped, Why didn't you tell me that girl was a crow?

          The girl sang: Pretty crow, pretty crow, won't you fly on over and get yourself some corn? Pretty crow, pretty crow.

         He could hear the corn pinging against the side of the bucket as she shook it, and his mouth started in a watering after that corn. Presently, his curiosity grabbed him by the toes and began to push him from the limb of the red oak tree toward the girl. He jumped back as the voice of his grandfather began to caw into his ears. Don't listen to her, boy! She's aiming to hurt you severely.

          The crow stood there listening to the blue-eyed girl sing, and as he listened, a thought began to make its way out of his heart toward the light of day. Presently, the thought whispered into his ear, She's not going to hurt me any. No one as pretty as she is, with her words floating across those rows of corn sounding sweeter than a quart of strawberry jam and a bucket full of pea blossom honey, no one that pretty and with a voice that sweet is going to hurt me. Is she?

         The voice of his grandfather faded quietly into the rustle of the red oak leaves as the girl once more sang. Pretty crow, pretty crow, won't you fly on over and get yourself some corn? Pretty crow, pretty crow, won't you fly on over and get yourself some corn?

          Of a sudden he knew what he must do, and he swallowed that thing that had came up from deep in his heart and had been lying in the back of his throat talking to him, Fly black crow, fly. Black crow, fly, fly away. Fly black crow, fly. Black crow, fly, fly away.

          Having eaten his caution the crow fidgeted about on the limb of the red oak tree, dreading that it should rise in him again. Directly, he shook himself to free his heart from the stubborn veins of doubt that were still clinging to it like red clay mud.

          Come a whispering. . . come a whispering, a voice come a whispering into his ear, Go ahead, son. She ain't gonna hurt you none.

          A great, all encompassing cloud of trust rose up in him and stirred about in his heart as he listened to her sing. Pretty crow, pretty crow, won't you fly on over and get yourself some corn? Pretty crow, pretty crow.

         Of a sudden his wings spread and he was flying through the air. The next thing he knew, he was sitting on the edge of that bucket and the girl was looking right at him with her pretty blue eyes. Her voice came a floating at him, sounding sweeter than strawberry jam and pea blossom honey. "Tell me about yourself," she said.

          As he looked into her sea blue eyes he saw a lot of things a crow can see in a woman's eyes. He jumped back in a sudden flinch from seeing some of those things, and he heard himself casually reply, "There are not a lot of things to tell. You see, if you look closely, it is plain to see that I am only a crow. I am sure you have seen a lot of crows in your life."

          The girl let out a sigh as she rolled her eyes and said, "That may be true and all, but I can tell by the look in your eyes, you are not just an ordinary crow."

          There was a hard gleam in her eyes and they were sweeter still as the crow spoke in an off hand way of making conversation, "Is it true what they say, that corn is good?"

          The girl reached her right hand down into the bucket and it came out carrying a hand full of corn, "Try this here," she says to him. Directly, the crow saw his reflection against the side of that bucket, and it was eating out of the girl's hand. A thought came to him as he was pecking and swallowing as fast as he could. Might be, I am in a world of trouble here, the thought whispered into his ear. Will I once more fly far above the Tug Fork of the Big Sandy River, or will it be that I find myself glass-eyed and full of cotton?

          He paused between two swallows to reflect, but it was too late for him to change his mind. He was lost forever between the taste of this thing called corn and the sweet sound of a voice made for the harps of heaven.

          ...And the girl sang: Pretty crow, pretty crow, won't you fly on over and get yourself some corn? Pretty crow, pretty crow.