“What color is he?” Billy inquired.
“Buff and black,” Mrs. Woodchuck answered. “He’s mottled—that means about the same as spotted,” she explained. “I’ve heard him called the ‘tiger among birds.’ But whether it’s because of the spots, or because he’s so fierce, I really don’t know.”
“Maybe it’s both,” Billy suggested.
“Perhaps!” his mother said. “He has a deep voice,” she continued. “And he calls ‘Whoo, hoo-hoo-hoo, whoo, whoo!’ If you heard him in the woods you might almost think it was old dog Spot barking. But when he screams”—Mrs. Woodchuck shuddered—“then you’ll know him. For his scream is the most dreadful sound that was ever heard.”
“I wish you would scream like him once,” said Billy.
“Bless your heart!” said his mother. “My voice may not be very sweet, but I never could screech like him.”
“Why doesn’t Johnnie Green shoot him?” Billy asked. “If he only would, the Great Horned Owl could never trouble us any more.”
“Why, there’s more than just one!” his mother exclaimed. “When I say ‘the Great Horned Owl,’ I don’t mean just one!”
“Oh!” said Billy. That was different. And then he went out to play again.
For a long time he couldn’t get the Great Horned Owl out of his mind. Every time he heard the leaves rustle in the trees he jumped as if forty Great Horned Owls were after him. But since nothing of the sort happened, at last he forgot all about that danger. It was late in the afternoon when a horrid call sent him scurrying off: