Mr. Thompson says that he was sitting under an old oak-tree, not far
from the Long Island Sound; he had been watching the sunset, and was now
musing, with his eyes wandering from the gold and crimson clouds to the
blue water and the ground at his feet. Suddenly his attention was
arrested by a globular object by his side, about the size of a small
marble. He poked it attentively with his cane, and murmured: "Owls'
pellets; there must be a nest in the tree. Now those owls must be
strange birds; they eat a mouse or bird entire, and then spit out the
bones and skin, or feathers, in a round ball like this. Let me see," he
continued, turning the pellet over carefully with his knife; "this
fellow has been eating a mouse, for here is the skull and skin. I wonder
where the nest is? I'd get the young ones, and--and--" and Mr. Thompson
began to nod--"and give 'em to--"
"To who-o?" inquired a voice just above his head.
"To--to--to Miss--" continued Mr. Thompson, drowsily.
"To who?" repeated the voice.
"Who-o-o-o?" echoed Mr. Thompson, in strong nasal tones, and his head
dropped on his breast.
"Now you begin to talk," said the voice. "I have watched you for a long
time, and I knew you must be a relation of ours from your looks and
actions, and now it is proved by your voice, though you don't speak
loud."
Mr. Thompson says that the moment he nodded he was perfectly aware of
all that was going on, and looked up to see who was speaking. There on a
branch just above his head sat a large white owl, with his great eyes
staring directly at him.
"Come up here," said the owl.
"How?" inquired Mr. Thompson.
"Fly, stupid!" replied the owl.
Mr. Thompson flapped his arms obediently, and for a moment was somewhat
surprised to find that he had become transformed into an owl.
"That was done very quietly," he murmured.
"Of course; owls do everything quietly."
Mr. Thompson settled himself on the branch, and fluffed up his feathers
as naturally as if he had been used to it all his life.
"So you have had field mice for dinner," he said, after a few moments'
hesitation.
"Yes," answered the owl, "and very good eating they are, too. Do you
know," he continued, reflectively, "I can't see why the farmers are so
opposed to us. We eat up lots of mice and grubs of different kinds."
"And young chickens sometimes," ventured Mr. Thompson.
"Barely," replied the owl; "not when we can get anything else. But come
down-stairs and see the family;" and leading the way into the hollow
tree, the owl climbed down to the nest. It was quite at the bottom of
the tree, and was made of dried grass and feathers. In it were four
young owls, and comical-looking birds they were, too, with their great
round eyes and fluffy gray down.
After complimenting the old owl on the beauty of his family, Mr.
Thompson remarked, "I notice that your feathers are not like other
birds', but a sort of soft furry down."
"That is in order that we should make as little noise as possible when
flying, so that we can come upon our game unaware of our presence," said
the owl, climbing out of the nest. Mr. Thompson followed, and seated
again on the limb, he seemed for a moment to be lost in thought.
Presently the owl remarked, reflectively: "It seems strange that every
one should hate us as they do. If I fly near the house in the evening,
the farmer shouts, 'Shoot the owl! he is after the chickens.' If I sit
on a tree during the day, all the birds find me, and bother me half to
death. And some naturalist comes along and tries to take my children
away."
"I don't see how they can get them at the bottom of that hole," said Mr.
Thompson.
"Well, you see, everybody don't know how," replied the owl, "but Frank
Buckland, the great English naturalist, gives the best way. You see, our
two weapons of defense are our beaks and our claws, so if we can't get
the better of an enemy with our beaks we turn over on our backs and
clutch it in our claws, and we don't let go in a hurry either. So you
see this Buckland lets down a ball of worsted into the nest, and keeps
it bobbing up and down till we catch hold of it; then he draws it up."
"That makes me think," said Mr. Thompson, aloud, forgetting the presence
of the owl, "that I wanted one of the young ones to take to Miss--"
"To who?" interrupted the owl, angrily.
"To Miss--"
"To who-o-o-o?"
"To Miss Angelina," answered Mr. Thompson.
The owl puffed his feathers angrily, and the movement so disconcerted
Mr. Thompson that he lost his balance and fell from the branch. As he
picked himself up, the owl uttered a derisive "To who," and flew away.
It was quite late, and as Mr. Thompson walked slowly home, he murmured,
"I'll try that ball and string method of catching owls to-morrow, but if
they do more good than harm it seems a shame to disturb them, though I
do want to give one to--"
"To who?" came the voice of the owl from the depths of the woods.
Mr. Thompson paused. "I guess I'll leave them alone," he muttered, as he
strode along again.
"Good for you-u-u," shouted the owl, which last reply settled Mr.
Thompson's resolution, and Miss Angelina had no young owl.