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<h4 class = "headline">JOHN S. CROW.</h4>   All alone in the field Stands John S. Crow; And a curious sight is he, With his head of tow, And a hat pulled low On a face that you never see. KIN-FOLKS OF JOHN S. CROW.    His clothes are ragged And horrid and old, The worst that ever were worn; They’re covered with mold, And in each fold A terrible rent is torn.   They once were new And spick and span, As nice as clothes could be; For though John hardly can Be called a man, They were made for men you see. That old blue coat, With a double breast And a brass button here and there, Was grandfather’s best, And matches the vest— The one Uncle Phil used to wear. The trousers are short; They belonged to Bob Before he had got his growth; But John’s no snob, And, unlike Bob, Cuts his legs to the length of his cloth. The boots are a mystery: How and where John got such a shabby lot, Such a shocking pair, I do declare Though he may know, I do not. But the hat that he wears Is the worst of all; I wonder that John keeps it on. It once was tall, But now it is small— Like a closed accordeon. <ANTIMG src = "images/pic22b.png" width-OBS="478" height-OBS="111" alt = "scarecrow in a field of corn"> THE FAITHFUL WATCHMAN, JOHN S. CROW. But a steady old chap Is John S. Crow, And for months has stood at his post; For corn you know Takes time to grow, And ’tis long between seed and roast. <ANTIMG src = "images/pic23a.png" width-OBS="241" height-OBS="236" alt = "seated man"> GRANDFATHER. And it had to be watched And guarded with care From the time it was put in the <ins class = "correction" title = "text reads ‘gound’">ground</ins>, For over there, And everywhere, Sad thieves were waiting around. Sad thieves in black, A cowardly set, Who waited for John to be gone, That they might get A chance to upset The plans of the planter of corn. They were no kin to John, Though they bore his name And belonged to the family Crow; He’d scorn to claim Any part of the fame That is theirs wherever you go. So he has stuck to the field And watched the corn, And been watched by the crows from the hill; Till at length they’re gone, And so is the corn— They away, and it to the mill. Now the work is done, And it’s time for play, For which John is glad I know; For though made of hay, If he could he would say, “It’s stupid to be a scarecrow.” But though it is stupid, And though it is slow, To fill such an humble position; To be a good scarecrow Is better I know Than to scorn a lowly condition.     NO KIN TO JOHN. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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