"From yonder ivy-mantled tower,
The moping owl doth to the moon complain,
Of such as, wandering near her secret bower,
Molest her ancient solitary reign."
"By what you tell me," I said, "I can now guess where all my wild
rabbits have gone."
I was talking to a weasel. And indeed the weasel seemed talking to me,
for he stood upon his hind-legs, on the balcony, staring in at me
through the French window that opens from my study on to the long shady
lawn. As I did not move, he had a good look at me, and I think he felt
satisfied that I was not likely to harm him.
"Yes," I continued; "under that verandah, under the wooden balcony where
you now stand, used to dwell six wild rabbits, and did I not delight to
see them gambolling on the grass on the early summer mornings, the while
the blackbirds, the thrush, and the mavis enjoyed the bath placed on
purpose for them under the shade of the scented syringas."
"Well," replied the weasel, with a little toss of the head, "_I_ dwell
there now, and very comfortable I find the quarters."
"And the rabbits?" I inquired.
"Good morning!" said the weasel, and it departed.
The weasel often came to see me in this fashion, and sometimes, when I
took my chair outside of an evening, he would suddenly appear at the far
end of the balcony.
"_O, you're_ there, are you?" he would seem to say, quite saucily.
"Well, don't trouble yourself getting up; I sha'n't stop."
I had often wished to have a tame weasel; but though my present visitor
was not afraid of me, and I know it took the milk I used to put down for
it in a small bit of broken basin, I could never make a real pet of it.
But one bright lovely day I was passing along in the country on my
tricycle. It was a lonesome upland, where I was travelling, with
neither hedge nor ditch on either side of the road, only green grass and
trees, with here and there a bush of golden furze. I was going along at
no extra speed, but thoroughly enjoying myself; still, I put on all the
power I could after a time, and seemed to fly towards what appeared to
be an immense black snake hurrying across the broad pathway. This
snake, however, on a nearer inspection, resolved itself into one mother
weasel and five young ones, all in a row. Seeing me dismount, the old
mother hurriedly snatched up one of her little ones, perhaps her
favourite, and in a few moments they were out of sight, far away in the
thicket. Nay, not all of them, for here was one entangled in the rank
grass by the pathway. What should I do with it? If its mother did not
return it would very likely be left to perish. "Ah! I have it," I
thought, "I will take it home and tame it and keep it as a pet." It
needed some taming, too, young as it was; this I soon found when I
commenced to capture it, but not without considerable risk to my
fingers; but at last I had it secure in my tricycle basket.
I must at once confess that I was not successful in my endeavours to
domesticate this poor wee weasel. As far as a cage could be, its abode
was palatial; it had the warmest and softest of nests, and everything to
tempt its palate that I could think of; but although it came to know and
not fear me in a very few weeks, yet it never seemed perfectly content,
and seemed to long for the wild woods--and its mother.
And at last the poor little mite died, and I buried it in a tiny box
under a bush, and vowed to myself as I did so that I would never take
any wild thing away from its mother again.
Some people would tell you that you ought to destroy stoats and weasels
whenever you see them. I myself think you ought not, because, although
they do sometimes treat themselves to a young leveret, or even a
duckling or chicken, they should be forgiven for this when we consider
the amount of good they do, by destroying such grain-eating animals as
rats and mice, to say nothing of our garden-pests, the moles.
Even the owl is a very useful bird of prey, because he works by night,
when hawks have gone to sleep. Like many human thieves and robbers,
mice like to ply their pilfering avocation after nightfall, and they
might do so with impunity were it not for those members of the feathered
vigilance committee--the owls.
Now, so long as an owl does his duty, I think he has a right to live,
and even to be protected; but even an owl may forget himself sometimes,
and be guilty of indiscretion. When he does so, he has only himself to
blame if evil follow.
There was once a particularly well-to-do and overweeningly ambitious
owl, who lived in an old castle, not far from the lovely village of Fern
Dene.
"Oh!" he said to himself one bright moonlight night, as he sat gazing
down on the drowsy woodland and the little village with its twinkling
lights; "I _should_ like a repetition of last night's feast--a tasty
young weasel. Oh! I would never eat mouse again, if I could always
have weasel." And he half closed his old eyes with delight as he spoke.
"And why not?" he continued, brightening up; "there were five of them,
and I only had one. So here I go."
And away flew the owl out of the topmost window of the tower, and
flapping his great lazy wings in the air, made directly over the trees
to the spot where the weasel had her nest.
"I shouldn't wonder," said one bat to another, "if our friend Mr Owl
finds more than his match to-night."
Farmer Hodge, plodding wearily homewards through the moonlight, about
half an hour after, was startled by a prolonged and mournful shriek that
seemed close to his ear, while at the same time he saw something dark
rising slowly into the sky. He watched it for many minutes; there was
another scream, but a fainter one higher up in the air; then the
something dark grew darker and larger, and presently fell at his feet
with a dull thud. "What could it be?" he wondered as he stooped to
examine it. Why a great barn-owl with a weasel fast to its neck. Were
they dead? Yes, both were dead; but one had died bravely doing its duty
and defending its homestead; the other was a victim to unlawful
ambition.