“Yes,” said Tommy Smith, “it is very different, but”—
“Of course it is,” said the owl; “when I say that, I feel that I am making a sensible remark.”
Tommy Smith didn’t think that “shrirr-r-r-r” was a much more sensible remark than “tu whit, tu whoo,” but he thought he had better not say so, as the owl spoke so positively.
“There are a great many different kinds of owls in the world, you know,” the barn-owl continued. “Some are very large, as large as an eagle, and others are a good deal smaller than I am. Here, in England, there are three kinds,—the wood-owl, the tawny owl (I can’t answer for what they say), and the barn-owl. Now I, thank goodness, am a barn-owl. I must ask you to remember that, because, naturally, I shouldn’t like to be mistaken for one of the others.”
“Oh, I’m sure I shall remember it,” said Tommy Smith, “because”—
“Never mind saying why,” said the owl, “it would take too long. Well, and were you surprised to see me?”
“Oh yes, I was a little,” said Tommy Smith. “I just looked up, and I saw a great white thing going past the window.”
“I suppose I looked white to you,” said the owl; “but that is because you are not nocturnal, as I am. But, if you were an owl, like me, you would see that I am not really white. At anyrate, there is more of me that isn’t white, than that is. My face is white, I know,—these beautiful, soft, silky feathers that make two circles round my fine dark eyes,—my face-discs they are called (what a pity you can’t see them better!), they are white, and very handsome they look. I am very proud of them, for I am the only owl in England that has them. But, after all, my face, though it is beautiful, is only a small part of me. My back, which is much larger, is not white at all, but a light reddish yellow. There, now you get the moonlight on it nicely. Such pretty, delicate colouring. What a pity you are not nocturnal! Then, even my breast is not quite white. It has some very pretty grey tints about it. And yet I am called the ‘white owl,’ as well as the ‘barn-owl,’ and often that name is put first in books. It is very annoying. The barn-owl is a good sensible name; for I do know something about barns, and I am very fond of catching the mice that live in them. But why should I be called white, when I have such pretty colours? It is one of my grievances. You know I have a good many grievances.”
“Have you?” said Tommy Smith. (He knew what a grievance was; one of those things that ought never to be made out of anything.)
“Yes,” said the owl; “and do you know what I do with them?”