The only place on the heath where the heather is not all-powerful, is a low, stony ridge which passes over it.  There you’ll find juniper bushes, mountain ash, and a few large, fine oaks.  At the time when Nils Holgersson travelled around with the wild geese, a little cabin stood there, with a bit of cleared ground around it.  But the people who had lived there at one time, had, for some reason or other, moved away.  The little cabin was empty, and the ground lay unused.

When the tenants left the cabin they closed the damper, fastened the window-hooks, and locked the door.  But no one had thought of the broken window-pane which was only stuffed with a rag.  After the showers of a couple of summers, the rag had moulded and shrunk, and, finally, a crow had succeeded in poking it out.

The ridge on the heather-heath was really not as desolate as one might think, for it was inhabited by a large crow-folk.  Naturally, the crows did not live there all the year round.  They moved to foreign lands in the winter; in the autumn they travelled from one grain-field to another all over Goetaland, and picked grain; during the summer, they spread themselves over the farms in Sonnerbo township, and lived upon eggs and berries and birdlings; but every spring, when nesting time came, they came back to the heather-heath.

The one who had poked the rag from the window was a crow-cock named Garm Whitefeather; but he was never called anything but Fumle or Drumle, or out and out Fumle-Drumle, because he always acted awkwardly and stupidly, and wasn’t good for anything except to make fun of.  Fumle-Drumle was bigger and stronger than any of the other crows, but that didn’t help him in the least; he was—­and remained—­a butt for ridicule.  And it didn’t profit him, either, that he came from very good stock.  If everything had gone smoothly, he should have been leader for the whole flock, because this honour had, from time immemorial, belonged to the oldest Whitefeather.  But long before Fumle-Drumle was born, the power had gone from his family, and was now wielded by a cruel wild crow, named Wind-Rush.

This transference of power was due to the fact that the crows on crow-ridge desired to change their manner of living.  Possibly there are many who think that everything in the shape of crow lives in the same way; but this is not so.  There are entire crow-folk who lead honourable lives—­that is to say, they only eat grain, worms, caterpillars, and dead animals; and there are others who lead a regular bandit’s life, who throw themselves upon baby-hares and small birds, and plunder every single bird’s nest they set eyes on.

The ancient Whitefeathers had been strict and temperate; and as long as they had led the flock, the crows had been compelled to conduct themselves in such a way that other birds could speak no ill of them.  But the crows were numerous, and poverty was great among them.  They didn’t care to go the whole length of living a strictly moral life, so they rebelled against the Whitefeathers, and gave the power to Wind-Rush, who was the worst nest-plunderer and robber that could be imagined—­if his wife, Wind-Air, wasn’t worse still.  Under their government the crows had begun to lead such a life that now they were more feared than pigeon-hawks and leech-owls.