"Well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. Of course, you must realize that was the first time I had ever heard of any one's being afraid of the dark. It sounds ridiculous enough to all of you, I suppose, but to me, who had always preferred the cool, calm darkness to the glaring, vulgar daylight, it seemed then an almost unbelievable thing that anyone could be afraid merely because the sun had gone to bed.
"Now, some people have an idea that bats and owls can see in the dark because we have some peculiar kind of eyes. It's not so. Peculiar ears we have—but not eyes. We can see in the dark because we practise it. It's all a matter of practice—the same as the piano or anything else. We get up when other people go to bed, and go to bed when other people get up, because we prefer the dark; and you'd be surprised how much nicer it is when you get used to it. Of course, we owls are specially trained by our mothers and fathers to see on very dark nights when we are quite young. So it comes easier to us. But anybody can do it—to a certain extent—if they only practise.
"Well, to return to the children: There they were, all fussed and worried and scared, sitting on the ground, weeping and wondering what they could do. Then, remembering the dog and knowing they were kind to animals, I thought I would try to help them. So I popped across into the tree over their heads and said in the kindliest, gentlest sort of a voice 'Too-wit, Too-hoo!'—which means in owl language—as you know—'It's a fine night! How are you?'
"Then you should have seen those poor children jump!
"'Ugh!' says the little girl, clutching her brother around the neck. 'What was that, a spook?'
"'I don't know,' says the little boy. 'Gosh, but I'm scared! Isn't the dark awful?'
"'What was that?'"