Editor's note: This column originally was published March 3, 2000.

My curiosity prompted me to wonder if birds of the same species, living in different geographical locations, have a different accent as do humans. Editors of the bird books are silent on this subject although they are careful, by way of shaded maps, to show us where what species can be found. I have not dwelt anywhere outside the Midwest long enough to draw my own conclusions about this far-out matter.

A mockingbird, hatched and living its whole life, say in Missouri, probably never heard a seagull or Swainson's warbler. Hence its repertoire might be different than a Charleston, S.C., mockingbird that never strayed far from the Carolinas. Would the warmer air it breathes, tempered by the sea winds, alter its trills or roundelas? Does the ultra busy-dizzy, sixteen-to-the-bar songs of the Missouri wrens have a slower eight-to-the-bar beat down south?

These questions came to the forefront of my mind as I watched and listened to the Match Play Gold tournament way out in Carlsbad, Calif. In addition to the swish of the gold clubs and the TV narrators' voices, there was an extraordinary amount of crow caws. Evidently the camera, flying balls and voices of the players coaching their balls in flight had invaded what the crows considered their territory. It was a bit humorous to hear the derogatory cawing after Tiger Woods had missed a short putt. I wonder if Tiger was even aware of them. And did the aerial view of the sand traps bother them? It did me. I tried to find a pithy simile to describe such views of the bunkers. The best I could do was to say that they appeared to be what some snaggle-toothed Paul Bunyan spat out of a Bunyan-sized, white-iced cookie that he didn't like. And that is not pithy.

But the crows had many other things to seemingly quarrel about as their conversations came, by TV, loud and clear to me, sitting on the old green couch. They probably hadn't been out of California much but they sounded exactly like Missouri crows, raucous and rancorous. So, like Gertrude Stein's rose, a crow is a crow is a crow.

The crows have been plentiful around my premises this winter. With so many of the other birds gone south over the winter, they took center stage and to see a line of them flying straight against a blue sky was like seeing black crochet rug yarn being unraveled and disappearing behind them.

The crows held their annual Fall Convention in Arena Park as usual. It took them a long time to settle down to business. Many of their hotels, caucus halls, convention headquarters adjuncts had been destroyed or altered by last May's storm. There was such a multiplicity of things for them to consider. Quite often the Speaker in Charge of Crow Affairs was ousted on account of some scandalous affair. The national division of feeding grounds, the number of eggs they should be allowed to hatch, whether they should continue to quarrel with the bluejays, should only the delegates get to vote allowing crows from other regions to cross borders and come to live amongst them, took up a lot of their time.

I found a lot of crow feathers in the park and assumed many issues led to wingsticuffs.

Long have I looked for crows' nests, but I'm not sure I've seen any. I've seen many dried leafy constructions high in treetops but have assumed all of them to be squirrels' nests since I see no crows showing any interest in them. They hatch little crowlets somewhere. They are not on any endangered list. A pair of crows, which, by-the-way, are loyal to each other, can enhance the crow population

REJOICE!

Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime resident of Cape Girardeau.