CHAPTER XVII
A Novel Santa Claus
“It’s an Owl!”
“Only an owl–a little screech owl! Not–not so little, either! Where did it come from?”
“Yes! How on earth did it get in? Doors–windows–all are screened.”
“Glory halleluiah! It came down the chimney. Look–look at the black on its feathers, the wood-smuts clinging to it! Down the big chimney of the living room!”
“Like Santa Claus down the chimney! Mercy! d’you suppose it played Santa itself? or did the boys push it down?”
“The boys! Those miserable Henkyl Hunters–always on the trail of a joke! If they did, they’ll never own up! Never!”
Such was the substance of the uproar as the downy ball of mopping feathers took on a beak, claws and big brown eyes, blank and round, perching upon the foot-rail of a cot!
“Oh! it’s as bad as the bats in Tory Cave. And they were so-o hor-rid!” wailed Una. “It–it just tickled my lips with its wing. Bah!”
“Bad! It’s not bad, at all; it’s dear,” cooed Jessie, the merle, feeling instant kinship with the bewildered bird. “Girls! Girls! I believe it’s blind–blind as a bat, or as the pale fish in the cave. There it goes–look–knocking its head, this way and that, against the wall!”