Photographer Crane

"Photographer Crane" by David Cory follows the adventures of a young photographer as he navigates the challenges and excitement of capturing life through his lens. Set against a backdrop of vibrant locales, the story explores themes of creativity, personal growth, and the power of seeing the world from different perspectives. With a mix of humor and heartfelt moments, the book invites readers to appreciate the art of photography and the stories that each image can tell.

• Children

								
    “One, two, three, Turkey Lane,
     Is this Mr. Photographer Crane?
     Please come up the Forest Path
     And take my picture with a laugh,”

telephoned Little Jack Rabbit one morning, oh, so early, as Mr. Merry
Sun was climbing the blue sky in his golden chariot.

“All right, I’ll be there in a minute or three,” replied the kind
photographer bird and, picking up his camera, he started off through
the Shady Forest. It was quite a long walk, for his picture parlor
was in Bunnybridge, you know, just over the River Sippi, but by and
by, not so very far, for his long legs traveled pretty fast over the
ground, he reached the Tall Pine Tree in which Professor Jim Crow had
his home.

“Hello, Photographer Crane,” cawed the black bird professor, “where
are you going?”

“To take Little Jack Rabbit’s picture,” answered Photographer Crane,
setting down his camera and wiping his beak with a red silk pocket
handkerchief.

“Wait a minute, my little crow boy wants his taken.”

“Have no time,” answered the picture bird man.

“Oh, please take a photograph of my little crow boy,” begged
Professor Jim Crow. “It won’t take you a minute—here he is now.”

“Oh, all right,” answered Photographer Crane, setting up his camera.

    “Now be quiet, don’t you sneeze,
       Smile a little if you please!
     Smooth your feathers nice and trim,
       You’ll look like your father Jim,”

sang Photographer Crane in a sing-song voice from under the big black
cloth, which he had pulled over his head as Blackie Crow stood very
stiff and very still on a big limb of the Tall Pine Tree. Then with a
squeeze of the little rubber bulb the picture was taken. “How many do
you want?” he asked, folding up the camera.

“Maybe a dozen,” replied Professor Crow. “Send your bill with them.”

“I won’t forget that,” chuckled the Picture Bird as he hurried along.
Pretty soon he came to the Big Brown Bear’s Cozy Cave.

“Stop! Wait! Hey there!” shouted the Big Brown Bear, “I want my
picture taken.”

“Can’t wait,” answered the nervous crane, “I’m on my way to the Old
Bramble Patch.”

“It won’t take you a minute,” answered the Big Brown Bear. “Open up
your picture box and take my photo.”

“Oh, botheration!” exclaimed Photographer Crane, again setting up
his camera as the Big Brown Bear brushed his hair and combed his
trousers. I beg your pardon, I mean combed his hair and brushed his
trousers. Then, sitting down on a wooden bench and lighting his pipe,
he waited to be photographed. But, dear me! Photographer Crane was so
dreadfully nervous and his legs so trembly that the camera wiggled
and jiggled and I fear the picture will look like seven or eight
bears dancing in front of the Cozy Cave.

“Dear me!” sighed the poor nervous photographer bird as he hurried
away, “I’ll never reach the Old Bramble Patch, and I must not
disappoint Little Jack Rabbit.” But no sooner had he finished
speaking than out jumped Old Man Weasel. I wonder if he wants
his photo taken. Maybe he just feels hungry and will eat poor
Photographer Crane.

    “S O S. Oh, please come quick
       And bring your big old hickory stick;
     There’s danger in the forest lane,
       Oh, come and help poor Mr. Crane,”

shouted Professor Jim Crow over his radio as that mean Weasel crept
out from behind a tree.

Of course he did it so softly that Photographer Crane never heard
him. He had been hopping along on his long thin legs, his camera over
his back, feeling quite contented at having taken two pictures.

A good day’s work, and the day only half over. Pretty soon he would
be at the Old Bramble Patch to make a beautiful photograph of Little
Jack Rabbit.

“Maybe I’ll take it in colors,” he was thinking. “This little bunny
boy rabbit is such a nice youngster.”

Poor Photographer Crane! He didn’t see Old Man Weasel only a few feet
behind. No, indeed. If he had he might have dropped his big camera
and maybe hurt the little bird which all good photographers ask us to
watch until he squeezes the little rubber bulb.

But, no, sir! the good-hearted Photographer Crane never suspected
for a moment that he was in danger. My, but it was mighty lucky that
just then Professor Crow chanced to look down from his Tall Pine Tree
House. Dear me! I can’t bear to think what would have happened pretty
soon, and maybe mighty quick, to Photographer Crane if the good
professor bird had looked the other way!

“Bless my gold stripes and twenty-five silver buttons!” exclaimed the
brave Policeman Dog on hearing the radio call. Jumping up from his
mahogany desk, in less time than I can take to tell it, he picked up
his big hickory club and hurried to the Tall Pine Tree.

“Ha, ha!” chuckled the wicked Weasel to himself as he crept after
poor Photographer Crane, “in just two minutes or three I’ll bite in
two his long skinny left leg, ha, ha!”

“I’ll soon be at the Old Bramble Patch,” thought the kind camera
picture bird, strutting along, first on one leg and then on the
other. “I’ll make a beautiful picture of the pretty yellow canary
swinging in her gold cage on the front porch, the shiny brass knob on
the front door, Lady Love standing on the kitchen porch and Little
Jack Rabbit feeding the pigeons.”

“Gracious me! I wish the Policeman Dog would hurry,” sighed the
anxious but learned old crow bird, peering down from his Tall Pine
Tree House. He could just see Old Man Weasel’s tail as he crept, oh,
so softly after Mr. Crane.

“I won’t do a thing to that old Weasel,” laughed the Policeman Dog,
as he ran swiftly through the forest.

“My, this camera is heavy,” sighed Photographer Crane, slipping it
off his back. “I guess I’ll rest a minute or three,” and down he sat
on an old log. He didn’t see Old Man Weasel lean around a tree. Oh,
my, no!

But don’t worry, little reader, when “Pop goes the weasel!” as they
used to sing in the country when I was a boy.

Yes, “Pop” went Old Man Weasel, and the next minute poor Photographer
Crane found himself underneath that wicked furry animal.

“Help! Help!” shouted the long-legged camera man bird, giving a
kick-out with his long left leg.

“Keep quiet,” snarled Old Man Weasel, trying his best to bite the
poor struggling Crane’s bobbing-about head.

“Help! help!” shouted more loudly Photographer Crane. “Help! Help!
Please help me, somebody!”

“I will,” replied the Policeman Dog, swinging his big hickory stick
in the air. Down it came, whacko! on the wicked Weasel’s little red
cap.

“Ouch! Ouch!” he whined, letting Photographer Crane go in a hurry.

The next minute the Policeman Dog slipped a pair of handcuffs over
that old Weasel’s front paws.

“Dear, dear me!” sighed poor Photographer Crane, struggling to his
feet, no easy matter, let me tell you. Like walking up to the top of
the Woolworth Building when the elevators are on strike! At last,
when he had straightened out his long, thin knobby legs, he turned to
the kind Policeman Dog.

“Whenever you want your picture taken, come to me. I’ll take you in
fourteen different poses for less than nothing. Why, I’ll tint them

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