To return to the kingfisher and the epoch in one’s life made by the
rare appearance of that glancing jewel, although this house is in
owlish country, and we hear owls from dusk to dawn, yet the sight
of one is hardly less rare and memorable. The effect is, of course,
totally different. A kingfisher entrances, thrills; one sees it and
glows. But the owl cuts deeper; one feels that one is in the presence
of a thing not necessarily of evil but of mystery and darkness. That
is to say, an owl at night. In broad day there can be nothing sinister
about him, as I happen to know as well as any one.
On this matter I have a true story to tell, which, however, I shall
quarrel with no one for disbelieving. One Sunday morning in the early
summer a few years ago I was walking in a little pine-wood on a Kentish
common. Suddenly, at half-past eleven, I was conscious that I was not
alone, and lifting my eyes I saw on a bush close by a young owl. He was
looking directly at me with such a stare in his deep orange orbs as
only an owl can compass--steady, incurious, implacable. I stopped and
stared at him, and thought first of the strangeness of the encounter
and then of a humorous poem by an American publisher (Why don’t English
publishers write humorous poems?) which I had learnt at school,
beginning “Who stuffed that white owl?” This owl, it is true, was not
white, but a beautiful arrangement in soft browns; yet he remained
as motionless as that other, save that every now and then a shutter,
timed to about three seconds exposure, covered his ’wildered lenses and
retired again into the machinery of his head.
Seeing how young he was, and thinking it better that he should be
looked after than left to the attentions of the Sunday afternoon
villagers (who can be very deadly), I determined to take him home.
I therefore opened a handkerchief, advanced slowly upon him, and
spreading it over him carried him tenderly away. He made no resistance
whatever. I was the first human being he had seen and might as easily
have been friend as foe.
So far the story makes no great call on credulity. But the remarkable
part is to come. I gave the owl to the boys at a neighbouring cottage,
who had kept one before and understood feeding and so on, and it
was arranged that when he was a little older he should be released.
Very well. The next Sunday came and on that morning these boys also
abstained from church and walked through this little pine-wood on the
common, and at exactly the same time, and in what I take to be exactly
the same place, they also found a young owl and captured it. (“You see
this wet, you see this dry.”) That’s a very odd circumstance, isn’t it,
and worthy of a place in any collection of coincidences?
Now, if I did not believe truth to be the only really interesting thing
in the world, I should go on to state that when on the third Sunday I
went to the little pine-wood again I found a third owl; but that is
not so. Since then, indeed, except of course at the Zoo--where they
have all kinds, although no longer any of those fascinating little
creatures from some distant land who live in holes in the ground--I had
never seen another owl near enough to observe it with any minuteness
until the other evening in Sussex. Then, while it was still half light,
a large barn-owl emerged from a clump of trees beside the road and
flew before us and over us, as we drove along, for two hundred yards,
finally disappearing among some ricks. It made no sound whatever; fish
swimming in a clear stream are not less audible. Its light underpart
gleamed softly like a lamp in a fog, and, like that, seemed almost to
diffuse radiance.
This silence is very wonderful and soothing. I would prescribe the
spectacle of the flight of owls at twilight for any disordered mind.
But he would be a bold physician who recommended for any weak nerves
the angry, screaming owls that sweep round this house in the middle of
the night, especially when the weather is rough. Then they are ominous
indeed.
Our owls live in the belfry, and though I have stood again and again in
the gloaming, watching, I have seen them only once. On that occasion
there had been some disagreement in the fields, for two of them came
back in full flight together, one pursuing and one pursued, uttering
terrible cries. I saw them black against the sky for a moment,
disordered and beating, and then they disappeared into the masonry as
silently and effectually as water into sand. No wonder, I thought, as I
stumbled away among the graves, that some rustic minds think them not
birds at all, but disembodied spirits.
The difference between these witches of the night returning from their
quarrel and that soft glimmering ghost that had flown down the road
was wide enough; but how much wider the gulf between those predatory
termagants and the poor lost soul in the Kentish pine-wood. Even in
his mild countenance, however, one could easily discern the makings of
a bogey. To wake up in the small hours and find oneself beneath the
scrutiny of such eyes in such a countenance would be enough for many of
us.
What owls really are like, we shall, I suppose, never know: whether
they are wise as legend would have them, or merely look so; whether
they are truly sinister or only weird and carnivorous. These things
we shall probably never know, but there is a lady in Hampshire who
recently came nearer the secret than any one else has done. Her letter
describing her experience was printed in the “Evening Standard” in
the summer of 1910. The immediate neighbourhood of her house, she
explained, was once a favourite hunting-ground of owls, but latterly
they had steadily decreased, until to hear one had become something
of a rarity. This she much regretted. When, therefore, one night she
was awakened by an owl’s cry she sprang up and ran to the window in
pleasure, and while there it amused her to answer it, mimicry of owls
being a hobby of hers. But this time she mimicked better than she knew,
for instantly out of the blackness came a crowd of owls to her window,
angry and threatening and uttering strange sounds. She had, it seems,
stumbled on something in the owl tongue of very serious import. Isn’t
that interesting? She may have called out some deadly insult. She
may have hit on a rally, a summons to arms. Whatever it was, it made
her for the moment almost one of this mysterious, uncanny, nocturnal
race. Her cry, in short, opened the door on a new world, vastly more
enthralling in interest and strange possibilities than aviation or any
of our modern inventions can make this. But it instantly shut again.