Then I climbed too, and found myself in a dirty, garret-like place, lit by the rays falling through about a score of pigeon-holes.
For a few moments the place was dim, and I could hardly make out anything, but very soon after my eyes grew accustomed to the half light, and I was ready to join in Mercer’s admiration as he cried,—“Isn’t he a beauty!”
For we were looking where, in one corner, sitting bolt upright, with his eyes half closed, there was a fine young owl, just fully fledged and fit to fly, while nothing could be more beautiful than his snow-white, flossy breast, and the buff colour of his back, all dotted over with grey, and beautifully-formed dots.
“Oh, shouldn’t I like him to stuff!” cried Mercer. “He’ll never look so clean and beautiful again.”
“But what’s that?” I cried, pointing at a hideous-looking goblin-like creature, with a great head, whose bare skin was tufted with patches of white down. Its eyes were enormous, but nearly covered by a nasty-looking skin, which seemed to be stretched over them. Projecting beneath was an ugly great beak, and its nearly naked body, beneath the toppling head and weak neck, was swollen and bloated up as if it would crack at a touch. Altogether it was as disgusting a looking object as it was possible to imagine.
“That’s his young brother,” cried Mercer, laughing.
“Young nonsense! It must be a very, very old owl that has lost all its feathers.”
“Not it. That chap’s somewhere about a fortnight old; and look there, you can see an egg in the nest, too. Shouldn’t I like it!”
“Then it’s the nest belonging to three pairs of owls?” I said.