Wongo and the Wise Old Crow

A sudden gust of cold wind swept along the mountain side and rattled the dry leaves and dead branches of some jack-oak bushes that stood at the entrance of a snug little cave. Its sole occupant, awakened by the noise, opened his eyes and looked blinkingly up at the pale dawn-light that shone on the familiar rocks of the roof above him. Once awake, he realized that he was thirsty and hungry, but he hated to get up, it would be so nice to have just a little more sleep.While the cave-dweller was deciding between the call of his stomach and his desire to sleep, a big bluejay, with feathers rumpled by the wind, lit on a rock at the cave entrance and, after peering within, called out:“Sleepy-head! Sleepy-head!” Then, as there was no response from the cave, he called again: “Get up, Wongo. ‘The early bird catches the worm,’ and the early bear may catch the fat sheep.”“That’s all right about the early bird and the worm,” growled the little bear angrily, “but a bird doesn’t know much and it served the silly worm right for getting up too early. He ought to get caught.”Then Wongo got to his feet and, as the noisy bluejay flew away, he crawled sleepily out of the cave and ambled down a secret trail that led to the canyon below.Although the sun was not quite up on this eventful day, a pale dawn-light flooded the mountain side, causing the trees and bushes to look dim and ghostly.Wongo was in an ill temper. Hunger, thirst, and the desire to sleep, to say nothing of the wind that was bent on blowing his fur the wrong way, made him growl under his breath. And now he must go to the little stream that ran through the dark canyon far below and get a drink, and if he met any kind of an animal on the way that was good to eat—well, that animal had better look out for himself!Suddenly he stopped and sniffed the cool breeze that was now sweeping up from the gorge below.“Meat!” he ejaculated. “Fresh meat of the young calf.” Then quickening his pace he soon stood on the rim of the canyon, with his nose in the air, sniffing to the right and to the left. It took but a moment to decide that the good smell came from up the canyon, but up the canyon was forbidden ground. That tantalizing odor meant just one thing, and that was that old Grouch, the meanest and most feared old bear in all Timbertangle, had killed a calf, and had, no doubt, enjoyed a hearty breakfast.