The Big Brag

A Red River Métis Fable

One lazy afternoon, on a wind-leaned poplar, four crows gathered on the branches to do what crows do best… brag.

“I once stole bannock right off a trapper’s fire,” boasted Black Foot, puffing up his feathers like a kettle ready to boil. “Didn’t even get singed!”

Grey Beak rolled his eyes. “Big deal. I once plucked a bead from a hunter’s sash, perched on his shoulder, then flew off before he could blink.”

“Hah!” croaked Old One Eye, who mostly sat around remembering things louder than necessary. “I once scared a wolf off a carcass, just by glaring at it!”

The others stared at him.

“You’ve only got one eye,” said Black Foot.

There was a pause, then they all burst into cackling laughter.

Not wanting to be left out, young Sharp Wing flapped excitedly. “That’s nothing! I once saw a ghost dog. I cawed so loud it vanished!”

A couple of prairie dogs peeked up from the grass, and even the sparrows stopped chirping.

“A ghost dog?” said Grey Beak, narrowing his eyes.

“Yep,” said Sharp Wing. “It was riding the back of an ox cart. Late at night… or maybe it was just a sack of flour. Hard to say, but it was gone after the cart left!”

One by one, the crows tried to outdo each other. They told each other tall tales about stealing muskrat hats right off people’s heads, playing fiddle tunes with their beaks, learning Michif by eavesdropping, carrying whole snares through the sky. One even claimed to have flown to Batoche and back in a single day, with a pipe clenched in his beak the whole way.

Eventually, their caws faded. They sat in content silence, proud and puffed up, like storytellers at the end of a long night.

That’s when a magpie fluttered down and landed on a fencepost nearby.

“You lot still flapping your beaks?” she asked, tilting her head. “I just watched a chickadee build a nest, feed its young, and tidy up… all before breakfast.”

The crows looked at each other.

Then, with a rustle of wings and mumbled excuses - “urgent business,” “south wind’s calling,” “time for my worm walk” - they scattered in different directions.

All except Old One Eye.

He lingered on his branch. “Did the chickadee really do all that?” he asked.

The magpie smirked. “She did. And more than that, she got you all to stop squawking.”

Those who make the most noise often do the least, and while they flap and squawk for attention, others notice the truth.