Old Rough the miser

“We shall have some fun with Johnny the basso,” said the younger crow, as he stopped to gobble up several fat crickets that had collected on a piece of decaying fruit that lay by the roadside.

“An’ is it that yees would be afther taking the food from the mouths of a poor widder an’ her childer? Indade, an’ it’s a long time since the poor craturs have tasted the loike of these,” said a voice from behind; and suddenly turning, the crows beheld a large fat toad, who watched with indignation their lunch off the fat crickets.

“Who are you, pray?” asked the elder crow, “and why haven’t we as much right to eat these crickets as you?”

“It’s the Widow O’Warty I am, wid rispict to yees,” replied the toad, with dignity; “an’ if it’s the two foine wings of yees meself possissed, it’s not craping around I’d be, to take the food from poor widders an’ childer.”

“How did we know you wanted these crickets?” asked the younger crow. “You are welcome to them for all we care. We prefer our food well seasoned.”

The Widow O’Warty became pacified under this partial concession, and resumed the plausible manner for which she was noted.

“It’s me custom,” she explained, “to sthroll out afther the light is quinched, in s’arch of a thrifle to ate. There do bees foine crickets about here, an’ that’s the troot av it.”

The elder crow whispered to his brother, “Let’s pass her off on Johnny as the brown frog he’s lost.”

“How can we, this great fat toad?” replied the other brother, in the same low tone.

“In the dark, you goose, he wouldn’t know the difference, and we’d hide, and have lots of fun.”

The younger crow cawed approval, the widow meanwhile eying them shrewdly, half suspecting that she herself was the subject of their whispered conversation.

“See here, Widow,” began the elder crow, “you know Johnny the basso, don’t you?”

“Is it the swate singer down by the bog ye mane?” asked the widow.

“Yes, I see you know him.”

“It’s the foine deep v’ice he possisses,” replied the widow; “an’ it’s many a night meself has listened to the swate sounds.”

“He’s mashed on you, Widow,” said the elder crow; “he’s about as far gone as I ever saw any one.”

“Be off wid yer nonsinse!” exclaimed the widow, not displeased at the news. “It’s fooling yees are.”

“Upon my honor, Widow,” replied the elder crow, seriously; and addressing his brother he asked, “Didn’t we hear him singing about her beautiful brown skin and her fine yellow eyes?”

“That we did,” answered the younger crow, promptly; “and, my eyes! didn’t he howl, though, when he talked about her?”

“I’ll not bel’ave yees,” said the widow. “It’s making game of meself yees are.”

“Not a bit of it, Widow,” asserted the elder crow, earnestly. “True as we’re sitting here, we heard him singing about his sweetheart, who had a brown skin and yellow eyes.”

“An’ did he say ’twas the Widow O’Warty he was after m’aning?” asked the widow.

“He didn’t exactly mention the name,” replied the younger crow, evasively, “but he described you so correctly that he couldn’t have meant anybody else. We told him we’d help him all we could.”

“The Widow O’Warty is me name, an’ me abode is opposite us; an’ if he’s the gintilman I take him for, he will presint himself an’ declare his intintions,” said the widow, loftily.

“Then you’ll not be hard on him, will you, Widow?” asked the elder crow.

“Whin he has stated his intintions, it’s meself that will consider his proposals,” replied the widow, majestically.

“Then we’ll ease his mind by telling him you will allow him to call,” replied the younger crow, as he and his brother flew off. When they were out of sight and hearing, they gave vent to the merriment they had been obliged to conceal from the watchful eyes of the widow, and their loud caws resounded through the wood.

Twilight was now approaching rapidly, and the two crows flew home as fast as their wings could carry them.

Early the next morning, the brother crows awoke, and were soon on their way to the dwelling of Johnny the basso. They found him sitting pensively on the border of the stream that flowed by his door, and abstractedly snapping at stray flies and bugs that came within reach of his long elastic tongue. Even these savory morsels were swallowed without any apparent enjoyment, but with a subdued and mournful countenance, as if he were performing some solemn rite.

“How are you this morning, Johnny?” called out his two visitors, as they seated themselves on a low bush that grew near by.

“I am miser-r-rable, my friends,” replied the bull-frog, sadly, his large eyes swimming in tears. “I am not able to sleep. I sink on zee leetle brown frog. I weep, ah! how I weep for my sweetheart!”

“What should you say, Johnny, if we were to tell you we had found zee leetle brown frog?” asked the elder crow.

“What should I say?” exclaimed the bull-frog, with a sudden change of manner. “I should say zat it is incredible, messieurs,—zat it is impossible zat you should find zee leetle brown frog in so short a time.”

“That’s just what we have done, Johnny.”

“Where is she?” exclaimed the singer, enthusiastically. “I fly to her, mon ange, mon ange!”

“Don’t be in too great a hurry, Johnny,” said the crow, cautiously. “You mustn’t take her by surprise. Wait till night comes, and then you can go and serenade her.”

“It is impossible to wait until zee night come,” replied the basso, excitedly; “now, zis minute, I fly to see zee leetle brown frog. But zee tenor? I forget zee miser-r-rable tenor who have stolen her from me. Where, I demand, is zis tenor?”

“We haven’t found him yet,” answered the elder crow, “but we will, in time. He is probably not far off. You remember what the owl said,—

He must still be in the meadow, you see.”

“I go to fight wiz zat tenor!” exclaimed the bull-frog, furiously. “I will cr-r-rush zat tenor! But you have not say where is zee leetle brown frog.”

“You see that small scrub-oak over in the field?” asked the elder crow, nodding his head in the direction of a small oak that grew by a stone wall. “Well, she lives in a hole in that wall. You will find her easily enough.”

“I sank you, messieurs, for your kindness,” said the basso, in his most gracious manner. “Permit me to make my adieu zat I may compose a song, zat zee leetle brown frog sall find zat my voice is so fine as before.”

“Good-by,” called out the crows, as they flew away, “and good luck to you.” They looked back as long as they were in sight, and saw that the basso sat motionless before his door, gazing silently into the depths of the stream.

The mischievous crows waited with impatience for the coming of night. It was not their habit to be out after sundown, but so eager were they to witness the result of their practical joke, that they resolved to pass the night in the neighborhood of the Widow O’Warty’s abode, that they might see and hear what would happen. Accordingly, late in the afternoon they set out, and reached their destination soon after the sun had set.

A large maple-tree hung its branches over the wall near by, and on one of these branches the young crows perched, and sitting motionless, with their heads sunk between their shoulders, they awaited the development of their plan.

The eavesdroppers dared not converse, for fear of detection, and very hard it was for them to remain silent for so long a time, it being their habit to caw incessantly. Twilight soon appeared, and settled into darkness, and after what seemed to the listeners a long time, the moon rose over the tops of the forest trees, and gradually sailed into the sky.

This was a great relief to the young mischief-loving crows, for now they began to discern objects, and they felt sure that the beautiful moonlight would tempt the basso to steal forth to his trysting-place.

As the rays of the moon lighted up the wall under the tree on which the crows sat, they cautiously stretched forth their mischievous little black heads. At the door of her dwelling, in the shadow thrown by the scrub-oak, they discovered the matronly form of the Widow O’Warty, her prominent eyes shining in the moonlight.

Exchanging glances of suppressed merriment, the two crows, barely succeeding in smothering their laughter, again allowed their heads to sink between their shoulders, and resumed their former solemn attitude. They had not much longer to wait, for soon their shrewd eyes descried a dark form hopping through the grass, and rapidly approaching the scrub-oak.

When within a few feet of the widow’s door, the new-comer stopped, and after a few ineffectual attempts to conquer his emotion, sang the following verses, in a voice that at first trembled perceptibly, but gradually increased in strength, until the full tones of his deep bass resounded through the still evening air.

The full deep tones of the last “a-hung” had scarcely died away on the summer air, when the Widow O’Warty, who had, during the song, moved restlessly about, first on one foot and then on the other, suddenly gave vent to her emotions by hopping up to the singer and exclaiming in her shrill croak,—

“Faith, an’ it’s meself that will put an ind to your suffering, me poor cratur!”