THE THREE BLACK CROWS.

Once upon a time, there lived two brothers, the one a cleric, the other a layman. The former was always saying that no woman could keep a secret, and as his brother was married, he bade him test the truth of this assertion on his own wife. The layman agreed; and one night, when they were alone, he said, with a sorrowful face, to his spouse:

“My dear wife, a most dreadful secret hangs over me; oh that I could divulge it to you; but no, I dare not; you never could keep it, and, if once divulged, my reputation is gone.”

“Fear not, love,” rejoined the wife; “are we not one body and one mind? Is not your advantage my benefit, and your injury my loss?”

“Well, then,” said the husband, “when I left my room this morning a deadly sickness came upon me, and after many a pang, a huge black crow flew out of my mouth, and, winging its way from the room, left me in fear and trembling.”

“Is it possible?” asked the wife; “yet why should you fear, my life? be thankful rather that you have been freed from so noxious and troublesome an occupant.”

Here the conversation ended. As soon as it was day, up got the wife, with her thoughts full of the black crow, and hastened to a neighbor’s house.

“Dear friend,” said she, “can I trust you with a secret?”

“As with your life,” rejoined the confidante.

“Oh, such a marvellous accident happened to my husband!”

“What? what?” asked the anxious friend.

“Only last night, he felt deadly sick, and, after a great deal of pain, two black crows flew out of his mouth, and took wing from the room.”

Away went the wife home, with her mind disburthened of the awful secret; whilst her friend hastened to her next neighbor, and retailed the story, only with the addition of one more crow. The next edition of the legend rose to four; and at last, when the story had gone round the gossips of the village, a flock of forty crows were reported to have flown from the poor man’s mouth; and there were not a few who remembered seeing the black legion on the wing from the man’s window. The consequence of all thiswas, that the poor husband found himself saddled with the very questionable reputation of a wizard, and was obliged to call together the village, and explain to them the true origin of the fable. On this his wife and her confidantes were overwhelmed with ridicule and shame, and the men of the village were the more impressed with the truth of the cleric’s maxim.

“Did the old monk attempt a further interpretation of his ungallant fable?” asked Herbert.

“Undoubtedly,” replied Lathom. “The unfortunate husband typified the worldly man, who, thinking to do one foolish act without offence, falls into a thousand errors, and has, at last, to purge his conscience by a public confession.”

“Let us now pass on to Shakspeare’s plagiarisms,” said Herbert.

“Improvements—new settings of old jewels, which only heighten their lustre—not plagiarisms,” replied Lathom. “King Lear dates back to the Gesta. Theodosius of Rome occupies the place of the British king; his child Theodosia is Shakspeare’s Cordelia.”

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