Anderson Crow's home was
besieged. The snow in his front yard was packed to an icy consistency by
the myriad of footprints that fell upon it; the interior of the house
was "tracked" with mud and slush and three window panes were broken by
the noses of curious but unwelcome spectators. Altogether, it was a
sensation unequalled in the history of the village. Through it all the
baby blinked and wept and cooed in perfect peace, guarded by Mrs. Crow
and the faithful progeny who had been left by the stork, and not by a
mysterious stranger.
The missionary societies wanted to do something heroic, but Mrs. Crow
headed them off; the sewing circle got ready to take charge of affairs,
but Mrs. Crow punctured the project; figuratively, the churches ached
for a chance to handle the infant, but Mrs. Crow stood between. And all
Tinkletown called upon Anderson Crow to solve the mystery before it was
a day older.
"It's purty hard to solve a mystery that's got six weeks' start o' me,"
said Anderson despairingly, "but I'll try, you bet. The doggone thing's
got a parent or two somewhere in the universe, an' I'll locate 'em er
explode somethin'. I've got a private opinion about it myself."
Whatever this private opinion might have been, it was not divulged.
Possibly something in connection with it might have accounted for the
temporary annoyance felt by nearly every respectable woman in
Tinkletown.
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