mr. crow had been talking about the corn in the silo, which farmer green fed to the herd during the winter. and the muley cow could see that he was growing angrier every moment.

"well! well!" she exclaimed. "you don't object—do you?—if farmer green feeds us corn that he raised himself."

"certainly i do!" mr. crow fumed. "it's not fair. he doesn't store away any nice sweet corn in a silo for me."

"ah! you wouldn't like it if he did," the muley cow told him.

"why not?" mr. crow asked. "why shouldn't i enjoy nice sweet corn in the dead of winter?"

"because—" said the muley cow—"because the corn from the silo isn't sweet. it's sour, mr. crow. and you wouldn't care for it at all."

the old gentleman looked surprised.

"how sour is it?" he inquired.

"i'd hate to say," the muley cow replied.

"i insist on your telling me," he croaked. "i insist; for i've a right to know."

"well," said the muley cow, "the corn from the silo is not quite as sour as your temper, mr. crow. and that's all i can say."

that seemed to be enough for him. he asked no more questions, but flew off in a terrible rage. and he told all his friends that it was a shame, the way farmer green ruined the corn by putting it in the silo. "it turns sour," he explained. "and farmer green has to feed it to the cows, because nobody else will eat it."

all the crows in pleasant valley agreed that it was a pity to spoil good corn like that. they even had a meeting—a crow caucus—in the pine woods, they were so upset.

"what can we do about it?" they asked one another.

nobody could supply an answer.

"if we could eat all the corn before it's cut, we could save it—" old mr. crow began.

but the rest shouted him down. they knew that couldn't be done.

"there's your friend, the muley cow," said one of them to old mr. crow. "why don't you tell her that farmer green's not treating the herd well? he gives them spoiled corn. if they'd refuse to eat it, it would serve him right."

"a good idea!" said everybody else—except old mr. crow. as for him, he made a wry face.

"i don't enjoy talking with the muley cow," he objected. "besides, a talk with her would be of no use. she's one of the most stupid people i ever saw."

after a good deal of teasing by his cronies mr. crow at last consented to speak to the muley cow once more. and flying to the pasture, he flapped down near her.

"if i had been born a calf—" mr. crow began. but he got no further than that before the muley cow broke in upon his words.

"if you hadn't been born a rascal everybody would have a better opinion of you," she told him.

he began squawking at her at the top of his lungs.

but the muley cow didn't care. she continued to twist her tongue around mouthfuls of grass quite as if mr. crow had never been born at all.

and that was the end of that.