Judge no one by his style of dress;   Your ignorance you thus confess.
   —Blacky the Crow.
“Caw, caw, caw, caw.” There was no need of looking to see who that was. Peter Rabbit knew without looking. Mrs. Quack knew without looking. Just the same, both looked up. Just alighting in the top of a tall tree was Blacky the Crow. “Caw, caw, caw, caw,” he repeated, looking down at Peter and Mrs. Quack and Mr. Quack and the six young Quacks. “I hope I am not interrupting any secret gossip.”
 
“Not at all,” Peter hastened to say. “Mrs. Quack was just telling me of the troubles and clangers in bringing up a young family in the Far North. How did you know the Quacks had arrived?”
 
Blacky chuckled hoarsely. “I didn't,” said he. “I simply thought there might be something going on I didn't know about over here in the pond of Paddy the Beaver, so I came over to find out. Mr. Quack, you and Mrs. Quack are looking very fine this fall. And those handsome young Quacks, you don't mean to tell me that they are your children!”
 
Mrs. Quack nodded proudly. “They are,” said she.
 
“You don't say so!” exclaimed Blacky, as if he were very much surprised, when all the time he wasn't surprised at all. “They are a credit to their parents. Yes, indeed, they are a credit to their parents. Never have I seen finer young Ducks in all my life. How glad the hunters with terrible guns will be to see them.”
 
Mrs. Quack shivered at that, and Blacky saw it. He chuckled softly. You know he dearly loves to make others uncomfortable. “I saw three hunters over on the edge of the Big River early this very morning,” said he.
 
Mrs. Quack looked more anxious than ever. Blacky's sharp eyes noted this.
 
“That is why I came over here,” he added kindly. “I wanted to give you warning.”
&n............