THE STORY OF THE OWL.
“Well, suh,” said Harbert, “hit run sorter like dis: One time way back yander, fo’ ole man Remus wuz born’d, I speck, all de birds wuz in cahoots; dem what fly in de air, an’ dem what walk on de groun’, an’ dem what swim on de water—all un um. Dey all live in one settlement, an’ whatsomever dey mought pick up endurin’ er de day, dey’d fetch it ter der place wharbouts dey live at, an’ put it wid de rest what de yuther ones bin a-ketchin’ an’ a-fetchin’.
“Dey kep’ on dis away, twel, twant long fo’ dey done save up a right smart pile er fust one thing an’ den anudder. De pile got so big dat dey ’gun ter git skeered dat some un ud come ’long whilst dey wus away an’ he’p derse’f. Bimeby some er de mo’ ’spicious ’mong um up an’ say dat somebody bin stealin’ fum de provision what dey savin’ up ginst hard times. Mr. Jaybird, he coyspon’ wid Mr. Crow, an’ Mr. Crow he coyspon’ wid Miss Chicken Hawk, and Miss Chicken Hawk she coyspon’ wid Mr. Eagle, which he was de big buckra er all de birds. An’ den dey all coyspon’ wid one anudder, an’ dey ’low dat dey bleeze ter lef’ somebody dar fer ter watch der winter wittles whiles dey er off a-huntin’ up mo’. Dey jowered an’ jowered a long time, twel, bimeby, Mr. Eagle, he up an’ say dat de bes’ dey kin do is to ’pint Mr. Owl fer ter keep watch. Mr. Owl he sorter hoot at dis, but ’tain’t do no good, kaze de yuthers, dey say dat all Mr. Owl got ter do is ter sleep mo’ endurin’ er de night an’ stay ’wake endurin’ er de day.
“So, den,” Harbert went on, pausing as if trying to remember the thread of the story, “dey ’pinted Mr. Owl fer ter keep watch, an’ dey all flewd off, some one way an’ some anudder. Mr. Owl, he tuck his seat, he did, whar he kin take in a right smart stretch er country wid his big eyeball, an’ he sot dar right peart. But bimeby he’gun ter git lonesome. Dey want nobody ter talk ter, an’ de sun shine so bright dat he bleeze ter shet his eye, an’ ’fo’ he know what he doin’ he wuz a settin’ dar noddin’ same ez a nigger by a hick’ry fire. Every once in a while he’d ketch hissef an’ try ter keep ’wake, but, do what he would, he can’t keep his eye open, an’ bimeby he snap his mouf like he mad an’ den he slapped his head under his wing an’ dropped off ter sleep good fashion. Kaze when a bird git his head under his wing hit’s des de same ez gwine ter bed an’ pullin’ de kiver ’roun’ yo’ years.
“Well, suh, dar he wuz, settin’ up fast asleep. ’Long in de co’se er de day, Mr. Crow an’ Mr. Jaybird, dey struck up wid one annuder out in de woods, an’ dey sot down in a popular-tree fer to carry on a confab. Dey done bin coy-spon’ wid one anudder an’ dey bofe bin pullin’ up corn. Mr. Crow’low ter Mr. Jaybird dat he ain’t so mighty certain an’ shore ’bout Mr. Owl, kaze he mighty sleepy-headed. Wid dat, Mr. Jaybird, he up an’ say dat he got dat ve’y idee in his min’. Dey sot dar an’ swop talk’bout Mr. Owl, twel, atter while, dey’gree ter go back fer de settlement an’ see what Mr. Owl doin’.
“Well, suh, dey went dar, an’ dar dey foun’ ’im. Yasser! Mr. Owl sholy wuz dar. He wuz settin’ up on a lim’ wid his head flung under his wing, an’ ’twuz all dey kin do fer ter wake ’im up. Dey hollered at ’im des loud ez dey kin, an’ bimeby he woke up an’ tuck his head out from under his wing an’ look at um des ez solium ez a camp-meetin’ preacher. Dey ’buze ’im—dey quoiled—dey call ’im out’n his name—dey jowered at ’im—but tain’t do no good. He des sot dar, he did, an’ look at um, an’ he ain’t say nuthin’ ’tall. Dis make Mr. Crow an’ Mr. Jaybird mighty mad, kaze when folks quoil an’ can’t git nobody for ter quoil back at um, it make um wusser mad dan what dey wuz at fust. Dat night when de yuther birds come home, Mr. Crow an’ Mr. Jaybird, dey had a mighty tale ter tell. Some b’lieved um an’ some didn’t b’lieve um. Miss Jenny Wren, an’ Mr. Jack Sparrow, an’ Miss Cat Bird, dey b’lieved um, an’ dey went on so twel de yuther birds can’t hear der own years, skacely. But de big birds, dey sorter helt off, an’ say dey gwine ter give Mr. Owl anudder chance.
“Well, suh, dey give Mr. Owl two mo’ trials, let alone one, an’ eve’y time dey lef ’im dar fer ter watch an’ gyard, dey’d fin’ ’m fast asleep. An’ dat ain’t all; dey skivered dat somebody done bin slippin’ in an’ totin’ off der provisions.
“Dat settle de hash fer Mr. Owl. De birds sot a day an’ fotch Mr. Owl up fer ter stan’ trial, an’ dey laid down de law dat fum dat time forrud dat Mr. Owl shan’t go wid de yuther birds, an’ dat de nex’ time dey kotch ’im out de word wuz ter be give, an’ dey wuz all ter fall foul un ’im an’ frail’m out. Den dey say dat when he sleep he got ter sleep wid bofe eyes wide open, a’n dey lay it down dat he got ter keep watch all night long, an’ dat whensomever he hear any fuss he got ter holler out:
“’Who—who—who pesterin’ we all?’
“Dat de way de law stan’s,” continued Har-bert, placing his basket of corn on the top rail of the fence, “an dat de way it gwine ter stan’. Down ter dis day, when Mr. Owl asleep, he sleep wid his eye wide open, an’ when de yuther birds ketch him out, dey light on to ’im like folks puttin’ out fire, an’ when he ups an’ hollers in de night-time, you kin hear ’im say:
“‘Who—who—who pesterin’ we all?’”
With a laugh, in which Joe Maxwell heartily joined, Harbert turned his attention to calling his hogs, and the way he did this was as interesting to Joe as the story had been. He had a voice of wonderful strength and power, as penetrating and as melodious as the notes of a cornet. On a still day, when there was a little moisture in the air, Harbert could make himself heard two miles. The range over which the hogs roamed was at least a mile and a half from the pen. In calling them the negro broke into a song. It was only the refrain that the distant hogs could hear, but as it went echoing over the hills and valleys it seemed to Joe to be the very essence of melody. The song was something like this: