The crows liked Justin's corn better than any other in Edgewood. It had a
richness peculiar to itself, a quality that appealed to the most jaded palate,
so that it was really worth while to fly over a mile of intervening fields and
pay it the delicate compliment of preference.
Justin could explain the attitude of caterpillars, worms, grasshoppers, and
potato-bugs toward him only by assuming that he attracted them as the magnet
in the toy boxes attracts the miniature fishes.
"Land o' liberty! look at 'em congregate!" ejaculated Jabe Slocum, when he was
called in for consultation. "Now if you'd gone in for breedin' insecks, you
could be as proud as Cuffy an' exhibit 'em at the County Fair! They'd give yer
prizes for size an' numbers an' speed, I guess! Why, say, they're real crowded
for room--the plants ain't give 'em enough leaves to roost on! Have you tried
'Bug Death'?"
"It acts like a tonic on them," said Justin gloomily.
"Sho! you don't say so! Now mine can't abide the sight nor smell of it. What
'bout Paris green?"
"They thrive on it; it's as good as an appetizer."
"Well," said Jabe Slocum, revolving the quid of tobacco in his mouth
reflectively, "the bug that ain't got no objection to p'ison is a bug that's
got ways o' thinkin' an' feelin' an' reasonin' that I ain't able to cope with!
P'r'aps it's all a leadin' o' Providence.
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