While the gurgling oil o’erflows
With a drip, and a rush, on the great owl’s tail,
A splash on the traveler’s nose.
He’s up in a trice, and, seizing a broom,
He arms himself for a fight.
But all is still in the ruined church;
For the owls are out—and his light.
COMMON AND UNCOMMON SPONGES.
A FINE SPONGE.