THE EXPLOIT OF ONE-EYED JOHN
It happened one day that One-eyed John caught an owl in his corn-crib,
and he had just nailed the live bird to his house door as a bandit of
the worst kind, worthy to be exposed to the jeers of all who passed and
to dry up on the spot so as to serve as a scarecrow.
John was very proud of his deed; he laughed at the click-clacking of
the bird’s beak, at the desperate rolling of the eyes as the owl hung
there crucified. Its grimaces and contortions, the convulsive efforts
of the wings to free themselves from the big nails that pierced them,
and the fits of impotent rage expressed by the spasmodic working of the
talons put him in the best of humors.
The children of the neighborhood, cruel and heartless as is usual at
their age, and still more cruel when grown persons set the sad example,
had gathered before the door and were joining in the laugh at the owl’s
sufferings. John told them that his neighbor, old Annette, had died two
weeks before because the owl came three times in quick succession and
hooted on the roof of the house.
“Those creatures,” said he, “are bad-luck birds. At night they fly into
churches and drink the oil out of the lamps; they perch on the roofs of
sick people’s houses and foretell their death; and they snuggle into a
hole in the belfry and laugh when the bell tolls for a funeral.”
All this of course frightened the children. “See,” said the youngest,
pressing close to his brother, “how the owl threatens us with its big
red eyes; it must be awfully wicked.”
“It’s so ugly,” said another, “let’s hurt it. That will teach it to
laugh when people die, and to drink oil out of the holy lamps. John,
put its eyes out with this pointed stick, it looks at us so wickedly;
and put this piece of glass in its claws so that it will cut its
fingers.”
And thus each one did what he could to harm the helpless creature; each
tried to invent some new torture for it.
Just then Louis happened to come along, and the children called to him
to join them in tormenting the owl. More merciful than his comrades,
especially since he had fallen into the way of visiting Uncle Paul’s
house, Louis turned his eyes away from this frightful spectacle and
begged John to end the bird’s agony instead of making it suffer still
further tortures. But the boy’s entreaties were all in vain, and he
went away much distressed.
As he was going home he recalled something Uncle Paul had said in one
of his talks; he had told the boys that when the ignorant crowd agrees
to call a thing black it is always well to see whether after all the
thing may not be white.
“Here is One-eyed John,” said Louis to himself, “One-eyed John, known
all about here for his ignorance; he has never in his life opened a
book, and he glories in the fact; he can’t sign his name; and he
rejects with mulish obstinacy every wise suggestion. At this very
moment he is urging on the children against that poor owl he has just
nailed to his door, and to make them think there is some reason why he
should be so cruel he tells them it is a graveyard bird, a bad-luck
bird that brings misfortune to people. According to his account the owl
is an evil creature, full of malice, and deserves no pity. We must
punish it for its wickedness, make it suffer torments as an example to
others of its kind, and put it to death without mercy. But what if just
the opposite of all this should be true? What if the owl were really a
harmless creature or even a very useful one and worthy of our
protection? I must find out.”
Accordingly, that evening at Uncle Paul’s this was the first thing he
asked about. At Louis’s description of the tortured owl Uncle Paul at
once recognized its species.
“The bird that John thought he must nail alive to his door,” said he,
“is the belfry-owl, also called the barn-owl. The unfortunate creature
in no way deserved the frightful treatment it received. I pity it for
having fallen into hands made cruel by ignorance. Stupidity and malice
go together, they say; and it is very true. He who is ignorant is
deliberately cruel. Wild and foolish things are said against the
barn-owl, and John repeated them. Having heard them from some one else,
he now, in his turn, passes them on to the street urchins who were so
eager to put out the bird’s eyes. It is not true that the barn-owl
flies into churches and drinks the oil from the lamp that is kept
lighted night and day in the sanctuary; it is not true that it laughs
when it hears the passing-bell; it is not true that its hooting on the
roof of a house means that some one in the house will soon die. False
are all the sayings about its evil influence and its predictions of
misfortune, and any one who believes these absurd stories simply shows
that he has no common sense. We are in God’s hands, my children, and
God alone knows when our last hour is to come. Let us pity those
feeble-minded persons who believe the owl knows this tremendous secret;
let us pity them, but never let us abuse our reasoning powers by
believing that an owl, in expressing after its own fashion, on some
house-roof, its satisfaction at having caught a mouse, is solemnly
foretelling what is going to happen. Uncle Paul’s nephews must
henceforth pay not the slightest attention to any such superstitious
notions. Let us go on.
“What would you say of John if he had taken it into his head to kill
his cat by nailing the animal to the door by its fore paws?”
“I should say,” answered Louis, “that if rats ever ate him up it would
serve him right.”
“What you saw him doing amounts to about the same thing: he was
torturing one of the very best destroyers of mice, a bird in form, a
cat in habits. The barn-owl went into the corn-crib to guard the poor
man’s wheat from rats, and John, a prey to superstitious hatred and
never thinking of the service the owl was doing him, made haste to nail
the useful bird to his door.
“What strange wrong-headedness is it that makes us all, as a rule,
destroy the animals that help us most? Almost all our helpers are
persecuted. Their good will must be very strong, else our ill treatment
would long ago have driven them forever from our dwellings and fields.
Bats rid us of a host of enemies, but none the less we look upon them
with dislike. The mole and the shrew-mouse purge the soil of vermin,
and we dislike them, too. The hedgehog makes war on vipers and white
worms, and we make war on him. The owl and various other night-birds
are fine rat-hunters, but that does not save them from mistreatment.
Still other animals that I will tell you about later do the most useful
work for us, and we persecute them all. They are ugly, people say, and
for no other reason they are killed. But, blind slayers, shall you not
at last have your eyes opened to the fact that because of an
unreasonable dislike you have sacrificed your own defenders? You
complain of rats—and you nail the owl to your door, where you let its
carcass dry up, a hideous trophy! You complain of the white worms—and
you crush the mole every time the spade brings one to light. You rip up
the hedgehog and set your dogs on him just for fun. You complain of the
ravages of moths in your granaries, and if a bat falls into your hands
you seldom spare it. You complain, and yet you mistreat all the animals
that offer to help you. Blind you are and sadly misguided in your
wanton cruelty.
“Regarded merely as it affects his own interests, it is a pitiful piece
of work that John has done, but it is far more pitiful in respect to
the tortures he has inflicted on the bird. It is not the mark of a man
but of a brute to take pleasure in torturing an animal. It is a wicked
act and one that good men despise; ignorance is the cause of the act,
but ignorance is not an excuse. If an animal is harmful to us, let us
get rid of it by killing it, but let us never think of inflicting
needless pain, of causing suffering simply for suffering’s sake. That
would be to smother in ourselves one of the noblest of sentiments,
compassion; it would mean the arousing of savage instincts, which too
often lead to crime. He who finds his pleasure in torturing dumb
animals cannot take pity on the suffering of his own kind; his heart is
hardened and prone to evil. How I pity those poor children who stood by
and laughed at the barn-owl’s horrible sufferings, and who, led on by
the man’s example, helped to put out the wretched bird’s eyes! How I
pity them! Let them beware, let their parents take heed, for there is a
bad streak in them.”