Well, no rat with discrimination would select a corncrib abode anyway.

He'd fall through the floor slats.
Oppressed by the general air of slatty insecurity and the sight of a basket of ancient cobs in one corner, Kenny wished passionately that he hadn't always hated spiders, killed one with a shudder and pensively watched the sunset through the corncrib bars.

It made him think of flamingoes in flight.

One saw that best in India, flocks and flocks of them in the sky like an exquisite flame of clouds.

Ah, India! No, on second thought he'd rather he in Iceland.
It sounded cooler.
When the moon etched silver bars upon the corncrib floor he went to bed, regretting the preposterous fanlike spread of the corncrib walls.
Nothing walled should be smaller at the floor than it was at the top.
It gave one a hopeless feeling of constriction.