The Elephant Gun and the Crow

You’re not supposed to have “favourite clients”, but if I did, Fred would be high on my list. Fred was actually the barber in the building which contained all the Provincial Courts in Ottawa, and after he cut my hair enough times, became my client. We’re now both retired from our second professions, and we keep in touch.

Like most barbers, Fred was also an accomplished storyteller, and never better than when telling stories about his younger days, or his family. And one of his best family stories, one I have heard many times (often by request) is the story of the elephant gun and the crow.

Fred’s grandparents had been innkeepers in Holland, and at the time of the story his aunt was about twelve years old. Also at the time there were three little old ladies, wealthy spinster sisters, who lived across the street from the inn, and who spent most of their days sitting on the front porch drinking tea from a teapot of the finest china.

A few years before the fateful day, a guest had come and gone, leaving behind a huge rifle, an elephant gun, which he had brought back from his stay in South Africa. Expecting the guest to return for this expensive gun, the family stored it in the attic, where it gathered dust until the fateful day.

The last piece of the puzzle was a crow, loud and obnoxious, which said crow spent most of its days in a tree just outside the inn making a nuisance of itself. When it wasn’t filling the air with its raucous caws, it was terrorizing the neighbourhood cats and stealing shiny objects. And nobody hated the creature more than Fred’s aunt.

You can probably see where this story is going, and you’d be right to guess that the aunt happened to be in the attic, observed the hateful bird in a tree not far from the window, noticed the elephant gun, and saw an opportunity. With calm purpose she slid a cartridge into the gun, propped it onto the windowsill, and took careful aim.

The crow lost a couple of tail feathers, but otherwise unharmed flew off in a terrible rage. The bullet, however, had not finished its work.

Straight across the street and toward the spinsters’ house sped the projectile. The little old ladies looked up in alarm at the sound of gunfire, and were thus transfixed when the bullet smashed into their teapot.

The teapot shattered into a hundred pieces, shards of porcelain flying all over the porch and onto the street. Its contents splattered all over the tabletop and over the spinsters.

There is no mistaking the smell of atomised gin in the hot summer air. The sisters’ secret was no more.

The police officer who arrived, of course, had to appear as stern as he could, and the gun was confiscated. But he knew, and everybody knew, that the story of the day was the gin, and with a final stern warning he left, chuckling to himself.

And the crow? Never heard from again.