"hoot toots, man, yon's a queer bird!"
bonnie scotland.
i am an owl; a very fluffy one, in spite of all that that bad boy pulled out! i live in an ivy bush. children are nothing to me, naturally, so it seems strange that i should begin, at my time of life, to observe their little ways and their humours, and to give them good advice.
and yet it is so. i am the friend of young people. in my flight abroad i watch them. as i sit meditating in my ivy bush, it is their little matters which i turn over in my fluffy head. i have established a letter-box for their communications at the hole in the tree. no other address will find me.
it is well known that i am a bird of wisdom. i am also an observing bird; and though my young friends may think i see less than i do, because of my blinking, and because i detest that vulgar glare of bright light without which some persons do not seem able to see what goes on around them, i would have children to know that if i can blink on occasion, and am not apt to let every starer read my counsel in my eyes, i am wide awake all the same. i am on the look-out when it's so dark that other folk can't see an inch before their noses, and (a word to the foolish and naughty!) i can see what is doing behind my back. and wiseacre, observer, and wide-awake—i am the children's owl.
before i open my mouth on their little affairs, before even i open my letters (if there are any waiting for me) i will explain how it came about that i am the children's owl.
it is all owing to that little girl; the one with the fluffy hair and the wise eyes. as an observer i have noticed that not only i, but other people, seem to do what she wants, and as a wiseacre i have reflected upon it as strange, because her temper is as soft and fluffy as her hair (which mine is not), and she always seems ready to give way to others (which is never my case—if i can help it). on the occasion i am about to speak of, i could not help it.
the bad boy
it was last summer that that bad boy caught me, and squeezed me into a wicker cage. little did i think i should ever live to be so poked out, and rummaged, and torn to shreds by such a thing as a boy! i bit him, but he got me into the cage and put a cloth over it. then he took me to his father, who took me to the front door of the house, where he is coachman and gardener, and asked for little miss to come out and see the new pet tom had caught for her.
"it's a nasty-tempered brute, but she's such a one for taming things," said the coachman, whipping off the cloth to show me to the housemaid, and letting in a glare of light that irritated me to a frenzy. i flew at the housemaid, and she flew into the house. then i rolled over and growled and hissed under my beak, and tried to hide my eyes in my feathers.
"little miss won't tame me," i muttered.
she did not try long. when she heard of me she came running out, the wind blowing her fluffy hair about her face, and the sun shining on it. fluffed out by the wind, and changing colour in the light and shade, the hair down her back is not entirely unlike the feathers of my own, though less sober perhaps in its tints. like mine it makes a small head look large, and as she had big wise eyes, i have seen creatures less like an owl than little miss. her voice is not so hoarse as mine. it is clear and soft, as i heard when she spoke:
good tom
"oh, how good of you! and how good of tom! i do so love owls. i always get mary to put the silver owl by me at luncheon, though i am not allowed to eat pepper. and i have a brown owl, a china one, sitting on a book for a letter weight. he came from germany. and captain barton gave me an owl pencil-case on my birthday, because i liked hearing about his real owl, but, oh, i never hoped i should have a real owl of my very own. it was kind of tom."
tom
to hear that bad boy called kind was too much for endurance, and i let them see how savage i felt. if the wicker work had not been very strong the cage would not have held me.
"he's a tartar," said the coachman.
"oh no, williams!" said little miss, "he's only frightened by the light. give me the cloth, please."
"take care, miss. he'll bite you," cried the coachman, as she put the cloth over the cage, and then over her own head.
"no he won't! i don't mind his snapping and hissing. i want him to see me, and know me. then perhaps he'll get to like me, and be tame, and sit on the nursery clock and look wise. captain barton's owl used to sit on his clock. poor fellow! dear old owlie! don't growl, my owl. can you hoot, darling? i should like to hear you hoot."
sometimes as i sit in my ivy bush, and the moon shines on the spiders' webs and reminds me of the threads of her hair, on a mild, sleepy night, if there's nothing stirring but the ivy boughs; sitting, i say, blinking between a dream and a doze, i fancy i see her face close to mine, as it was that day with the wicker work between. our eyes looking at each other, and our fluffiness mixed up by the wind. then i try to remember all the kind things she said to me to coax me to leave my ivy bush, and go to live on the nursery clock. but i can't remember half. i was in such a rage at the time, and when you are in a rage you miss a good deal, and forget a good deal.
i know that at last she left off talking to me, and i could see her wise eyes swimming in tears. then she left me alone under the cloth.
"well, miss," said the coachman, "you don't make much of him, do ye? he's a tartar, miss, i'm afraid."
miss
"i think, williams, that he's too old. captain barton's owl was a little owlet when he first got him. i shall never tame this one, williams, and i never was so disappointed in all my life. captain barton said he kept an owl to keep himself good and wise, because nobody could be foolish in the face of an owl sitting on his clock. he says both his godfathers are dead, and he has taken his owl for his godfather. these are his jokes, williams, but i had set my heart on having an owl on the nursery clock. i do think i have never wished so much for anything in the world as that tom's owl would be our bird of wisdom. but he never will. he will never let me tame him. he wants to be a wild owl all his life. i love him very much, and i should like him to have what he wants, and not be miserable. please thank tom very much, and please ask him to let him go."
"i'm sorry i brought him, miss, to trouble you," said the coachman. "but tom won't let him go. he'd a lot of trouble catching him, and if he's no good to you, tom'll be glad of him to stuff. he's got some glass eyes out of a stuffed fox the moths ate, and he's bent on stuffing an owl, is tom. the eyes would be too big for a pheasant, but they'll look well enough in an owl, he thinks."
my hearing is very acute, and not a word of that bad boy's brutal intentions was lost on me. i shrunk among my feathers and shivered with despair; but when i heard the voice of little miss i rounded my ear once more.
"no, williams, no! he must not be stuffed. oh, please beg tom to come to me. perhaps i can give him something to persuade him not. if he must stuff an owl, please, please let him stuff a strange owl. one i haven't made friends with. not this one. he is very wild, but he is very lovely and soft, and i do so want him to be let go."
"well, miss, i'll send tom, and you can settle it with him. all i say, he's a tartar, and stuffing's too good for him."
whether she bribed tom, or persuaded him, i don't know, but little miss got her way, and that bad boy let me go, and i went back to my ivy bush.
