THE OWL AND THE CHICKENS
Serena liked me to go with her when she took her walks about the farm at
night. At first I was flattered at her preference for me, then I was
interested, and finally I was responsive. Serena was really getting fond
of me, and she was becoming unselfish and companionable. She knew that I
admired her, and she was so clever that when she set about trying to
make me love her she succeeded easily.
“We're sisters,” she said gently. “We ought to be great friends.”
“Chums,” I said.
“Chums, if you like,” she responded graciously. “The older I grow the
more I recognize the tie of blood between relatives—and you are really
quite nice-looking at times, Black-Face. Just lower your head a little,
till I lick your fur into shape between your ears where you can't reach
it with your tongue.”
“Thank you,” I replied. “The tongue can dress things down much better
than damp paws.”
Serena attended to my toilet beautifully. That was last night. Then we
sallied forth for a moonlight walk. It was a beautiful night. There were
a few other cats about, but we stepped into the bushes till they passed
by. We saw a weasel down near the river, smelt a skunk, listened to the
deep breathing of the young cattle and the horses sleeping out in the
pasture, and saw with regret that the lovely white woolly sheep had
broken into the meadow.
“We can't do anything about it,” said Serena. “The farmer will turn them
out in the morning. Meantime they're having a fine feed of rich meadow
grass, and they won't get whipped for it.”
“No, Farmer Gleason never whips anything,” I said. “I wish he owned all
the dogs and cats and horses in the world.”
“What is that?” said Serena excitedly, as we came up the sloping road
leading from the meadow to the barn.
I looked at the top of the carriage-house. There, perched on the
ridge-pole where the pigeons loved to sit in the daytime, was a funny
square-looking creature that never moved.
“Is it a bird?” I asked.
“I think from what I have heard,” said Serena, “that it is a big owl.
Keep close to the fence, sister. If he sees our fur, he may seize us.
Tabby says Joker was nearly caught once by a big owl. Oh!” and Serena
gave a gasp.
With her native caution, as soon as she saw the owl, she had led me
under the snake fence. Fortunately a few poles had fallen out and had
made a rough shelter, under which we crept. I hadn't turned my eyes from
the owl but for a second when I felt something strike the poles above
us, and saw the flash of two balls of fire, which were eyes. Then I lay
gasping with fright.
“He struck me,” moaned Serena—“what claws—they felt red hot.”
“Oh! the wicked creature,” I whispered, then my conscience pricked me. I
had just been looking for a nice, sweet, little meadow mouse down by the
river.
Serena, who never ate mice, was following the workings of my mind. “My
back smarts terribly where he ripped it,” she sighed. “I am very sorry
for every creature that suffers.”
“Wait till we get out of this,” I said comfortingly, “and I will give
your back a good licking.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, then she said, “Alas! poor Beauty.”
“Why do you say that?” I asked.
“Beauty and her chickens are sleeping in that apple-tree to-night,” said
Serena, nodding toward the young orchard. “She wouldn't go in the
hen-house, and Della laughed at her and said she could sleep out. Every
chick skipped up the branches after her. That wretch hears them.
Chickens move about in their sleep sometimes, the way human babies
nestle.”
“Mona is sleeping up by the barn door to-night,” I said. “She likes to
be there because it is high, and she can see all over the farm. I wish
she were here.”
“She can't fly,” said Serena.
“No, but she could bark and rouse the farmer. I'm going to call her,”
and I mewed loudly, “Mona, Mona.”
The good old dog, who does not sleep as soundly as when she was young,
heard me and came running to us.
I soon told her the trouble. The owl, of course, knew all about it, but
he was a very bold fellow and evidently scorned us all. While Mona was
staring and sniffing the air in his direction, the great creature made
another swoop. Not a sound was audible. Owls are very sneaky creatures.
He hovered over the apple-tree nearest the carriage-house—there was a
loud cackle from Beauty, and a spluttering from the chickens. We could
hear some of them fluttering to the ground.
Mona bounded away.
“She can't fly,” I said, “but that owl will be smart if he gets any of
the chickens while they are near her on the ground.”
The owl knew better than to descend too low, but the bold fellow made
one more dash at the apple-tree.
More chickens cried and flounced wildly about in the darkness. Mona just
yelled with rage, and in a jiffy Barlo was leaping and barking beside
her. Mr. Gleason was at the window sending up a rocket that made Mr. Owl
vanish like a ghost.
I laughed the most delicious cat laugh that I ever enjoyed. I just
fancied that owl's astonishment when the rocket went flying through the
air in his direction. I don't think he will ever come back to the farm.
“Let him hunt mice and vermin in the meadow,” said Serena, “and leave
our chickens alone.”
Part of the family was at the windows, the rest was out-of-doors. Serena
and I advanced to the side of Mr. Denville. He ran his hand over my
back, then over Serena's. “This cat is bleeding,” he said.
“And some of the chickens are gone,” said Mr. Gleason, “look at these
feathers.” He whirled his lantern round under the trees where the
moonbeams did not penetrate, and showed what he had picked up.
“There isn't one gone,” said Mona to me. “When the owl flew away, he
carried nothing with him.”
“Count your chickens,” said Mr. Denville.
“Can't,” said the farmer, “they're scattered.”
“Do you find any large feathers?” asked Mr. Denville.
“No,” said the farmer, “not one. I guess you're right. Morning will
tell, anyway. Mona and Barlo will keep the old fellow from making any
more visits.”
Morning did tell the same story. The owl had pulled a number of feathers
out of the chickens, but he had not got one of the little creatures.
They were wiser chickens after that, and Beauty was a wiser mother.
Every night we saw her going to bed nice and early in the hen-house with
her fine brood behind her. She told Serena that it was a dreadful thing
for a mother hen to lead her chickens into such danger, and she said
that they suffered more during the long night when they crouched in the
grass, and behind the woodpile, and under the veranda, than when the owl
was attacking them. They were a scattered family. Beauty was a very
young hen. Everybody called her old, but she really had not had much
experience in bringing up chickens.