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By Teet Carle In burnt cork make-up, this is how theatre patrons saw the famous Two Black Crows when Moran and Mack did their famous acts in vaudeville and on Broadway. They also did this prison routine in a Paramount picture titled “Why Bring That Up?” in the Thirties. Moran & Mack The two “Black Crows" f There are some house owners in the extreme northern end of San Fernando Valley who probably are unaware that they are living in a colony originally known as “Tierra de Cuervo.” The twenty acres lie just down the hill to the West of the castle where the screen’s first cowboy star, William S. Hart, lived and died and are within Newhall. The man who built the first homes there in the early Thirties wanted to follow the custom of the Southland in using Spanish names and he wished to call the place “Crowland,” which is what Tierra de Cuervo roughly means. The chap was Charles Mack, boss man of the once super-star comedy team of Moran and Black, the Two Black Crows. I watched the first half dozen of those houses go up when I was publicist on the two feature films in which Moran and Mack starred for Paramount, “Why Bring That Up?” and “Anybody’s War.” It is doubtful if any prints exist in any archives of those comedies and if any nostalgia buffs really care. Forty years ago, I never would have believed that recently I had to shake myself to be sure I wasn’t dreaming that a pair called the Two Black Crows ever dominated a brief part of my career as a press agent. But I do know that, at their peak, they probably had more persons laughing more loudly and lastingly on any given moment of the day than any other funny men in show business history. Amos and Andy, Lum and Abner and similar duos took over for only fifteen minutes of radio’s day. But almost incessantly in any block of any city or farmhouse of any township, a phonograph would be leading to convulsive laughter with an unbelievable low lazy voice making incredible replies to piping questions from another voice. That record, The Two Black Crows — six minutes of tried-and-true vaudeville material — sold by the millions. Every line seemed to create a guffaw. It brought showers of gold to Charlie Mack. He was the first instant millionaire I ever knew. If he wasn’t a Croesus, he certainly lived like one. Even now I can remember some of the patter, though the last record I had got shattered a few years ago. It opened with the toot of a steamboat and Mack saying he’d like to be aboard but had no money and Moran asserting