_Bowser the Hound._


At all seasons of the year Blacky the Crow is something of a traveler.
But in winter he is much more of a traveler than in summer. You see, in
winter it is not nearly so easy to pick up a living. Food is quite as
scarce for Blacky the Crow in winter as for any of the other little
people who neither sleep the winter away nor go south. All of the
feathered folks have to work and work hard to find food enough to keep
them warm. You know it is food that makes heat in the body.

So in the winter Blacky is in the habit of flying long distances in
search of food. He often goes some miles from the thick hemlock-tree in
the Green Forest where he spends his nights. You may see him starting
out early in the morning and returning late in the afternoon.

Now Blacky knew all about that river into which Bowser the Hound had
fallen. There was a certain place on that river where Jack Frost never
did succeed in making ice. Sometimes things good to eat would be washed
up along the edge of this open place. Blacky visited it regularly. He
was on the way there now, flying low over the tree-tops.

Presently he came to a little opening among the trees. In the middle of
it was a little house, a rough little house. Blacky knew all about it.
It was a sugar camp. He knew that only in the spring of the year was he
likely to find anybody about there. All the rest of the year it was shut
up. Every time he passed that way Blacky flew over it. Blacky's eyes are
very sharp indeed, as everybody knows. Now, as he drew near, he noticed
right away that the door was partly open. It hadn't been that way the
last time he passed.