His plumage was glossy and abundant, his eye alert, his claws long and
strong; in all points he was everything a handsome young owl should be.
For two years he had slept snug under his mother’s wing, the fond object
of her jealous care; but when spring came round again, his father, who
was a very sententious bird, addressed him in these terms—
[Illustration: MISADVENTURES OF AN OWL]
“You are grown up now, and the time is come when we must part. The nest
would be too small to hold both you and those who will come after you.
Moreover, no owl is ever happy save as head of a household. All sorts of
trials and tribulations await us; men feel nothing but anger and
contempt for our race. No matter for the watch and ward we keep over the
orchards, the war of extermination we wage on the prolific broods that
devastate the wheat, for all our well-meant efforts to aid the harvests
to grow and the fruit-trees to bloom, our only guerdon is to be shot at
with guns. Alas! the most of us end by being nailed up to a barn-door,
with spread-eagled wings. A wife and family will console you under all
this cruel injustice. Year by year your heart will grow green again amid
the joys of domesticity, and you will attach a higher value to life when
you no longer stand alone to bear its burden. So quit the nest, as I did
before you; choose a good helpmeet of your own age, and may you be happy
together, as we are, your mother and I.”
Accordingly the youngster took his departure. Gravity comes early to
owls, and though only two years old, he already wore the severe air of
an old philosopher. But the young lady owls, likewise brought up to
scorn worldly pleasures, prefer this serious deportment to the gay
exterior the other birds find so fascinating.
He went methodically round the village, and was well received by the
parents, while more than one young thing turned her head to look after
him. But there was not one of them, he thought, like his mother, and as
she was the paragon of all merit in his eyes, he had sworn only to
choose a mate who should resemble her in mind if not in face. He was in
despair, and on the point of returning to the paternal roof when, one
evening, as he was hovering about an old church-steeple, he caught sight
of a charming little head peeping out between the luffer-boards.
Was he weary of the search perhaps, or did the little face really remind
him of the adored image of his parent? He lingered long in admiration,
never tired of watching her dainty ways, and little by little something
began to thump inside him, something he had never felt before. She was
busy crunching a mouse, pecking and worrying at it with her sharp beak,
and had very soon left nothing but the bare bones. Then she wiped her
beak and preened her feathers prettily, as every well-bred young lady
owl should.
Just as she was finished, she saw him sitting in the next tree, and,
startled at being caught at her toilet, she hid her head under her wing;
nor was he a whit less embarrassed, and each of them gazed at the other
in equal confusion, without saying one word. At last he made up his mind
and spoke to the parents, who both thought him a very charming fellow.
It was a quiet wedding, as weddings always are among the owls. There was
no music or nonsense; they were married at night, in the old steeple,
and the moon lent her illumination. When all was over, the parents gave
their blessing, and the young couple set out on their honeymoon.
But it was not the sort of jaunt the sparrows indulge in, sailing away
into the blue, so high, so high they seem as if they would never come
back again; _they_ lighted sedately on the bough of an old oak, and,
finding it a good place, stopped there for good. Besides, the oak, being
decrepit with years, had not, as a younger tree would, a whole host of
impudent little cock-sparrows for its denizens; a blackbird lodged on
the first floor, and a magpie had selected the trunk as his residence,
and though both were great chatterers, the owls did not find their
company disagreeable.
But it was not so with Father Blackbird and Mother Magpie; they were
fond of gaiety, and the newcomers struck them as dismal neighbours to
have. So they went off to see the tomtits, who are naturally very daring
fellows, and told them about the hum-drum life the happy pair led; and
between them they planned a fine _charivari_ for the benefit of their
new neighbours in the early hours of the morning.
Our friends were still fast asleep, snugly ensconced in the depths of a
hollow bole, when the hostile band appeared. Suddenly an appalling
uproar woke them with a start; screwing up their eyes, they tried to
discover what was the matter, but they could not see a thing. Meantime
dawn had broken, the sun was already shooting his beams like fireworks
through the boughs, and great dragonflies were darting to and fro,
glittering like emeralds. At last they made out a whirl of wings,
looming like a black shadow in the clear morning air. Their assailants
swept down and crowded every branch of the old oak, which hummed like a
gigantic harp with the twittering of a thousand throats.
The poor owls could make nothing of it; owls are simple-minded folk, and
all they could think of was that another newly-married couple were
celebrating their nuptials, and that the discordant noises they heard
were the cries of transport to be expected under the circumstances. They
shrunk away still deeper in their hole, not wishing to interrupt other
people’s enjoyment. But the tomtits were not satisfied—not they; it was
nothing merely to have startled them in their slumbers; they meant to
expel them from the old oak altogether. Prompted by the magpie, who sat
screaming defiance from the foot of the tree, some of the bolder spirits
poked in their heads at the entrance of the cavern. Inside it was dark
as night, and from the depths four eyes blazed out like balls of fire.
The champions took fright, and fell back hurriedly on the main body.
“Cowards!” screeched their amiable ally, raising her harsh voice to its
shrillest pitch; “d’ye mean to leave the villains in peace in their den?
Think of the horrid carnage there will be in the woods every night! Not
one of you will be safe in his nest any more. From time immemorial the
owl tribe has been the scourge of the whole bird nation. Their heads are
full of nothing but wile and wickedness, and the better to shed blood,
they go to work like murderers in the dark! Worse still, they are all
heretics. The witches use them in their incantations. They are birds of
hell. Slay, slay the foes of Holy Church!”
This speech rallied the waverers, and all together they forced a way
into the dark, yawning cavern.
In a moment a hundred beaks were pecking savagely at the two victims,
who, blinded by the light, struck out wildly in self-defence. Two of the
tomtits were left on the field, while the rest flew away in a panic,
screaming in chorus—“Vengeance! vengeance on the rascally owls!”
What had they done? What crime had they committed? Astounded as they
were, and amazed to think what motive should have prompted the attack,
they could no longer doubt that open war was declared upon them.
So they went in search of another home, and as night was falling, found
a safe retreat under the eaves of a lonely presbytery. “Here, at any
rate,” they thought, “no one will come to molest us. Alas! it is only
too true—we are not made for the society of our fellow-creatures, and
this deserted roof will hide us better than a prison.”
They had happy times; they reared a family of little ones, and lived a
patriarchal life in the hollow under the roof. Everybody has his own way
of being happy in this world of ours, and for all it was different from
the general fashion, this was good enough for them. To begin with,
dwelling by themselves, they knew nothing of envy, and no thought of
ambition vexed them; their only wish was to live as long as possible,
pariahs and outcasts as they were, and grow old together.
Let others go in search of adventures; their desires were limited by the
modest horizon they had before their eyes, and a secure abode, poor and
bare though it might be, seemed to them preferable to all the treasures
of Golconda. You see what reasonable, respectable people they were!
Certainly their dun-coloured plumage was not of the sort to let them
flaunt in the sunlight like other birds; after spending a luxurious
morning dozing side by side, they would wake just when the linnets,
goldfinches, and chaffinches were going to bed. A great silence brooded
over nature; for the giddy-pates who had been playing truant all the
day, and had left a feather or two of their plumage to dance in every
sunbeam, it would have seemed as dull as death; but they thought
otherwise, and for them the night was filled with infinite music. Did
not the breeze blow soft in the leaves with a murmur as of running
waters and prattling brooks? A wide peace fell upon the woodlands which
from noon to twilight had throbbed under the golden beams of the sun,
while the moon, the owl’s sun, spread her white beams over the landscape
like a river of milk.
Then their keen ear, an instrument of extraordinary delicacy, being very
large, and forming, as every bird-lover knows, a double spiral of
enormous dimensions, and admirably adapted to catch the faintest sounds,
noted from afar light rustlings and soft sighs, and a confused murmur of
music, wherein the wind seemed, turn and turn about, to pipe through
clarinet and oboe. Silent and awe-struck, the two outcasts felt the
kindly beneficence of nature moving on the face of the world. At times
louder sounds would mingle with the whisperings of the night, telling
them of the fawns pushing through the matted undergrowth, of companies
of woodland creatures sallying out to feed, lovers like themselves of
the darkness—badgers, polecats, wild-cats, weasels, and rabbits, of a
vast stir of life and activity down in the dim, intricate forest tracks.
Cats were prowling, their yellow eyes flaming along the darkling ways,
while from the homesteads rose rhythmically, pledge of security for all
the host of fur and feathers, the heavy snoring of the sleepers within.
Then they would come out and stand at the edge of the eaves, and gaze
forth, as from a balcony, on all the moving spectacle of the kindly
night. Sparkling gleams would flash along the ground like diamonds, and
the slates glitter like so many mirrors on the house-roofs. They could
see the stars reflected in the brook; mysterious eyes looked out from
under the trees, vague shapes went gliding along the road, while high in
the heavens, with a round face that seemed to laugh good-humouredly,
sailed the lady moon.
As long as they had no children, they enjoyed these hours of
contemplation like true artists who grudge to miss one note of harmony
or one gleam of beauty; they would never stir till dawn, hardly
troubling themselves even to go in search of food. But when the brood of
youngsters arrived, they had perforce to forgo these ecstasies. The
little beaks were for ever crying for more, and Goodman Owl, who was the
best of parents, became a mighty hunter.
Scarce was evening fallen ere he had taken post on the roof, heedless
now of the mysterious splendours of the night, the furtive comings and
goings of his prey occupying all his thoughts; the music of the spheres
was henceforth confined for him to the rustling of the field-mice
climbing the espaliers and the house-mice scuttling along the walls;
still as a statue he stood there watching and picking out the fattest
victim. Before the little creature had time to turn its head, he held it
in his terrible jaws, and was flying off with his prey, panting in
mortal terror, to his young ones, who instantly made a meal of it.
The poor little mouse saw nothing, heard nothing. A soft, fanning sound
from the night-bird’s velvety pinions was the only warning that anything
untoward was near; but already the ravisher had seized his prey; there
was a stifled squeal, and all was over!
Every ten minutes—the same regular interval has been observed in all
owls questing for food—he would bring fresh provender to the nest. The
darkest night was no hindrance; his shining eyes, with their widely
dilated pupils, pierced the blackest shadows as if they were
transparent, and there was no hole or corner where the little night
prowlers did not go in terror of their lives.
Meanwhile the mother-bird was feeding her brood, sometimes when the
mouse was particularly tough, tearing it piecemeal for her little ones
to devour more easily.
At other times father and mother together would guide the little family
along the roofs, patiently teaching the inexperienced wings to fly, and
giving a helping touch with beak or wing when they stumbled and tumbled
in their attempts. At full moon they carried the youngsters to a
neighbouring tree, he taking one, she another, and it was pretty to see
their amazement when, craning their little necks, they watched the dim
outlines of moving objects against the blue distance.
But they were getting big now, and the old owl lectured them sagely, as
his father had lectured him; he would tell them of the joys and sorrows
of life, and advise them to marry. No, it was not callousness—far from
it; he loved them tenderly, for by reason and instinct he was a pattern
of all the domestic virtues. But he was a wise and far-seeing parent,
who dreaded what their fate would be, should he and his mate one day
meet the doom all owls are liable to. Perhaps one morning a yokel would
climb to their hiding-hole and carry them off to kill them. True, the
good Curé, whose house sheltered them, had forbidden their being
molested; but he was an old man now, and nobody cared much what he said;
then, with a ladder, it was so easy to reach the nest! The old owl
always spoke like a philosopher; the future did not terrify him, and he
seemed quite resigned to the cruel lot men mete out to his species. His
words were without gall or bitterness; but a deep-seated melancholy gave
them the gravity that ever marks creatures born to suffer.
In younger days he had known rebellious thoughts, and the sense of human
injustice had oppressed his spirit; he had even dreamt of flying his
country for the lands the swallows in September told him of, and far
away from cruel men, living in peace and quietness with the mate who had
joined her life to his. But time had softened these resentments; he had
bowed his head, recognising a higher power above him, and content to
live on, harmless and obscure, asking only to repay good for evil.
One morning the young birds deserted the nest.
Then, alone once more, they resumed their former existence in the dark
hollow of the old oak, so solitary and silent now; they bore their
children’s departure as only another of nature’s inevitable necessities.
They seldom stirred from home now, seeing hardly a soul except a couple
of old friends sometimes on Sabbath days; as of old, they held long,
long talks of nights with the moon. Perched side by side on the eaves,
their dark shapes threw long black shadows across the roof; there they
sat stiff and still, save when, from time to time, they spread their
wings, swooped down on their prey, then resumed the same rigid attitude.
These murderous assassins were at heart the most peaceable of good
citizens. It was never their way, coming home at night, to wake the
other birds asleep among the foliage; no one ever heard them quarrelling
or shifting the furniture or pecking at the wall, as the cuckoos,
linnets, and chaffinches are so fond of doing; only, six or eight times
in the night, to advertise the country folk, they would cry _To-hoo!
to-hoo!_ if next day was going to be fine, and _To-whit!_ if it was
going to rain, at regular intervals, like talking barometers.
A pair of young turtle-doves nesting on the next roof found this habit
annoying, and went to the judge of the district to lodge a complaint.
The judge was a very old raven, whom years had only made more sly and
artful; he was said to be a hundred, and certainly his bald pate was as
shiny as a polished stone. He lived in a crevice in the rocks, alone
with his own thoughts. But these thoughts, unlike most old men’s, were
full of mockery for all created beings. This feathered Methuselah had
seen so much in his day! and experience had only taught him to laugh at
griefs and joys and everything else.
While appreciating his usefulness, he did not like Mr. Owl, and was not
sorry to make things unpleasant for him; he could always dismiss the
case in the end, after getting his fun out of it, if the turtles proved,
as he half suspected, to have been in the wrong after all.
Three blackbirds he employed as constables arrived at break of day at
the owls’ front door and knocked. Three times they had to repeat the
summons, so fast asleep was the worthy couple, till, roused at last, the
latter poked out their heads in great alarm to ask what was wanted with
them. Both looked so upset, he, poor fellow, in a nightcap, and she,
good dame, in morning deshabille, that the blackbirds, who are always
fond of a joke, burst into such a peal of laughter it took them ten
minutes to recover their gravity.
They laughed so heartily that the sparrows of the neighbourhood were
attracted by the noise, and began to turn and wheel in flocks above the
roof, while a horrid hubbub, a vile chirp! chirp! chirp! broke out,
deafening and confusing the poor owls still more.
The blackbirds, when they had done laughing, called for silence, which,
however, it took some time to establish. Then they announced—
“We, assistant officers of justice of this district, and by order of His
Honour the Judge, do hereby summon you to appear this day before stroke
of noon at his Court, situate, to wit, in the first crevice on the right
hand, beginning from above, of the cliff bordering the Great Meadow.”
This order was promulgated in shrill, nasal tones amid the rustling of
the wings of all present, who, the instant the last word was uttered,
began to amuse themselves by screaming in frantic delight. On the
blackbirds departing, a number of sparrows lingered on to enjoy the
confusion of the two owls.
These had shrunk away into the deepest recess of their lair, terrified
yet resigned, and their inquisitive tormentors heard none of the
lamentations they expected.
What black deed had been laid to their charge? The blackbirds had given
no indication, and they began mentally to review their past, searching
in vain for any crime they could be accused of. They had not robbed
other people’s goods, nor slandered their neighbours; they had never,
no, never caused any one’s death, while they had honestly and honourably
performed the duties Nature had given them to do. What more could be
asked of them?
The Judge was waiting—they must be off. It was a woeful pilgrimage. The
bright daylight dazzled them, and they went along blindly, running
against everything and perpetually losing their way; twenty times over
they lost their bearings and had to retrace their steps, covered with
confusion, while their dusky plumage made a dirty-looking blotch in the
fresh morning air.
“This way!” cried some tomtits, flying ahead of them—and, taking their
word, they blundered into a nest of yellowhammers, which luckily
happened to be empty.
“Don’t listen to them—come along with us,” the chaffinches advised them
next—and they went crash! head first into a wall.
A cloud of small birds followed behind. They were clawed and scratched,
and half-dazed, as they wandered about like phantoms of the night
masquerading at high noon.
When at last, after a thousand tribulations, with eyeballs starting from
their heads, battered and beaten and jeered at, they reached the Court,
another swarm of tormentors was waiting to receive them. There were at
least eight hundred, and every second others kept coming up, who, after
flying wildly about in search of places, lighted here and there and
everywhere, chattering and squabbling. The rock was soon so crowded from
top to bottom that a linnet, who had been detained at home feeding her
chicks, could not find a perch anywhere, and fluttered up and down the
tumultuous ranks, beseeching the audience in vain to sit a little
closer. The ladies especially seemed determined not to give up a single
inch of room, and all vied together in raising a hubbub, shrieking and
laughing and chattering as if they would never stop.
“Accused,” ordered the raven suddenly, “stand up. Our Clerk of the Court
will now read the statement of misdemeanours charged against you.”
For a little while the uproar still continued, mingled now with sharp
calls to order and appeals for silence; then, diminishing gradually,
died away into the light rustle of many wings. Then a magpie was seen to
rise briskly to his feet; his dark eye rolled roguishly, as he unfolded
with his beak a huge sheet of paper scribbled all over with writing and
read out in a dry, rasping voice—
“We, Clerk of the Court, &c., &c., do hereby certify that the
appellants, to wit M. Narcisse Tourtereau and his consort, Mme. Virginie
Tourtereau or Colombelle, have duly appeared before us and deponed that
the said appellants, cohabiting near by the messuage whereat the Owls,
man and wife, have taken up their abode, are nightly awakened by the
clamours, complaints, moans, groans, and quarrels of the aforesaid Owls,
who, instead of sleeping in their beds during the interval of time
falling betwixt sunset and sunrise, as do all the other birds, do choose
these selfsame hours, that are customarily devoted to repose, for
robbing and murdering and maliciously and mischievously disturbing their
neighbours’ night’s rest by reason of unseemly and uncouth noises.—I
have spoken.”
The magpie flirted his tail four times in token of satisfaction at his
own performance, snapped up a gnat to clear his throat, and, resuming
his seat, devoted himself to an endless succession of smiles directed to
the feminine portion of his audience. An approving murmur greeted the
conclusion of the statement of accusation.
Then, after a few moments of disorder, which was promptly checked, “Caw!
caw!” went the raven, with a fine attempt at seriousness, his great
round-eyed spectacles perched on his nose; then, turning to the owl, he
lisped in an affected voice—
“The word is with you; the Court will hear you in your own defence.”
Never, never had the birds enjoyed so laughable a spectacle before, as
they beheld the fowl of night step forward, looking oh! so awkward and
uncouth, with such a heavy hang-dog air! His great eyes rolled in his
head, he stumbled at every step, while behind his back grimaced his
shadow, mimicking every movement of his neck as it jerked in and out,
first short, then long, like the barrels of an opera-glass.
A wild spasm of merriment seized the vast concourse at sight of the
grotesque creature, and tomtits, linnets, birds of every sort and kind,
broke into a frantic peal of mirth.
“Silence in the Court!” shrieked the magpie.
But laughter is infectious. Quickly it extended to the lower ledges of
the rock, where the spectators sat half hidden from each other in the
semi-darkness, and the mighty cliff shook as if lashed by a hurricane.
The contagion caught even the magpie, the blackbirds, the Judge himself,
who began to sneeze again and again, in the effort to recover his
dignity. By fits and starts, the laughter would die down, only to burst
out afresh with redoubled vigour, and it was long before the excitement
subsided and heads ceased to wag. When at last the audience had
recovered something like composure, even then fans could be seen here
and there waving to hide behind their shield a last dying echo of
hilarity.
Meanwhile, the poor buffoon, the butt of all this scathing opprobrium,
stood silent and uncomplaining, humbly waiting his chance to speak.
Finally, when quiet was restored, he said—
“I am aware, your Honour, that men and birds all hold me and mine in
detestation. There is no villainy they do not impute to us, no crime
they do not charge us with, and when we have the misfortune to show
ourselves, the howl of hate rises as high about us as a tower. But are
we criminals? Do we lurk in the woods to rob our fellow-birds by night
or day? Do we plunder the granaries? Do we go thieving in the hedges? Do
we ever interfere with the livelihood of any of God’s creatures with
whom He has bidden us live in peace? Never, your Honour, never! All the
day we lie quiet in our hole, loving our wives and children, and
troubling nobody; then, when night is fallen, we win our nourishment by
exterminating rats and mice, field-rats and field-mice. I would hurt no
one’s feelings, but it is well to make comparisons sometimes, and I ask
myself—Which fulfils the more useful function, he who from dawn to dark
scours the orchards, stealing cherries, plums, and pears, so that the
countryman, when winter comes, has but the half of the crop he hoped
for, or he who, seconding the farmer’s toils with an incessant but
unseen activity that wins no reward, secures him the proper reward of
his pains?”
Protests were heard at these words, the goldfinches and sparrows crying
out indignantly—
“Ah! he shifts the blame on us, the sly-boots! He knows he can say what
he likes here, but outside the Court—why, he durst not so much as look
us in the face.”
“Oh! but, my good gentlemen,” retorted the orator quietly, “it is no
fault of mine if I cannot look at you in the way you wish; a natural
infirmity makes it impossible for us to see in daylight; such floods of
light beat into the wide pupils of our eyes as would blind us if we had
to face the sunshine long. That is the reason why you mocked at us just
now, when you saw us disabled by this excess of light, whose rays
pricked and pained our eyeballs like so many needles. Would you not feel
yourselves at the same painful disadvantage if you were obliged to fly
at night, when we owls come and go at our ease, our great pupils serving
us as lamps to see by? You would very soon break your heads against a
wall, let me tell you!
“But let me come to the allegations that have brought me here, into the
dock. Indeed, I have touched on them already; for is not the specific
charge against us that we choose the night to come out of our holes and
find our food? Why, what else could we do, when by daylight, by dint of
seeing too much, we cease to see anything at all? Nature has given us
the night, as she has given other birds the day, unwilling, in her
kindly wisdom, to see the dark less useful than the light; she has
appointed us her guardians to watch over the storehouses and orchards
and granaries, which, above all in the night-time, become the prey of a
host of pillagers.
“They talk of robbery; why, what robbery can they reproach us with? Is
it a malefactor’s work to purge the earth of the creatures that pick and
steal, and, like unnatural cannibals, would bring their mother to her
death, if we and some others, our colleagues in the same beneficent
task, did not put a check on their never-ending mischiefs? Just think if
we folded our arms and left them a free field; they would end by
devouring the trees, along with the bit of ground where they grow, and
the very folks who can never satiate their spite against us, finding
themselves deprived of shady leaves and luscious fruits alike, would
very soon come begging and beseeching us to return to our never-ending
task.
“Yet the owls, as your Honour knows, win neither respect nor profit from
their irksome labours. They are not proud; you will never hear them
bragging of the services they render; but modest, as becomes good
workers to be, they roost quietly at home all the time they do not
devote to the chase. Scorned by their brethren the birds, and persecuted
by mankind, they are victims of consistent ingratitude from the very
creatures they benefit; if I say this, it is to have the fact known once
for all, not to protest against a state of things established for all
time. We are therefore compelled to find in ourselves a happiness which
society refuses us, and, living in solitude, we rear our little ones for
a lot like our own. There is the head and front of our offending.
“There is yet another grievance against us; we disturb, so they allege,
our neighbours’ rest by our uproar. Surely the word is rather strong to
apply to us who are lovers of silence, shunning noise in others as much
as we avoid it in our own homes. If we make ourselves heard, it is not
for the pleasure of listening to our own voices! We well know we are no
sweet-voiced choristers, and when the nightingale sings, we have never
dreamt of posing as his rivals. There are, so the migrants have told us,
in the far-off cities of other lands, men who proclaim the hour from the
tall minarets in the silence of the night. We do not announce the
time—the cuckoo alone has this office to perform during daylight—but we
instruct the swallows on the point of winging away, we inform the
cricket, the bee, the ant, the ploughman, all to whom rain and sunshine
are not matters of indifference, if they may count or not on a
favourable morrow. So the kindly mother of man and beast has put two
notes in our throats, deeming we needed no more, not to make us singing
birds, but only birds of good help.
“I have no more to say, for indeed we are no great talkers, and oratory
is an art unknown to us. I will say no more, therefore, save only
this—that if you are not satisfied with my pleas, I offer myself—and my
companion here present will do the like—I offer myself a willing victim
to your resentment, if so be the common good, which could not heretofore
exist without our aid, is now only to be secured by the sacrifice of our
lives.”
Not a little surprised at his own eloquence, the bird of night stepped
back to his place with tottering limbs. Thereupon the jays and
yellowhammers began a hoot of derision, which was quickly drowned by the
protests of the mother birds trembling for their young; and then the old
raven, rising slowly to his feet, folded up his glasses, coughed,
croaked, and, inspired apparently by the general sense of justice,
summed up as follows—
“You, Sir Owl, you have done wrong in crying out over loud; but you,
young Turtle-dove, you have done a far graver wrong by haling an
innocent prisoner to the bar. You therefore will pay the fine to which
you would have had your neighbours condemned, and the costs of the trial
to boot. Moreover, I will take this opportunity to do an act of justice,
and extend a hand of brotherly affection to our honoured friend the owl,
who is henceforth to be treated with proper consideration and respect,
or I will know the reason why.”
Little by little the audience dispersed, the swarm of birds scattered
into space, and the raven’s rock was left to its former solitude.
Printed by Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
Edinburgh & London