Yes, the fluttering thing, of a sudden taking to flight again, was now playing shuttlecock, feathered shuttlecock, to the battledore of a broad sunbeam which batted it wildly hither and yon.
“Oh! keep back–quiet–maybe, ’twill settle down again,” pleaded the merle.
“Hasn’t it the face of a cunning little kitten? Such a wise, blinking, round-eyed kitten! Its head is reddish, not gray–and the rufous markings on its breast, too! Oh-h! I wonder if the boys did catch it in the woods and thought it was a good ‘henkyl’ to put down our chimney?”
But that, as the girls knew, would remain as blind a puzzle as the long, screened dormitory was to the dazzled owl, unable to see clearly in daylight, out visiting when he should have been in bed in the cool, dark hollow of a tree.
“Oo-oo-oo-ooo ... cluck!” it cooed and grumbled, pressing a dappled breast and wide-spread wings against a screen, the mottled back-feathers ruffling into a huge breeze-swept pompon.
“See! He’s playing he’s a big owl.”
“Oh! I wonder if he’d let me–let me catch him.” Jessie sighed yearningly.
“Do-o, and we’ll tame him–keep him for a mascot!” It was a general acclamation.
And the feathered Santa, apparently having no objection to this rële–finding himself no longer a waif in Babel–finally settled down again on the glittering head-rail of Una’s cot, his fluffy breast to the outdoor sunlight, his solemn, kittenish face–the head turning round on a pivot without the movement of a muscle in the body–confronting sagely the delighted girls.
“Isn’t he the dearest thing? Oh! I’m glad the boys played the trick–if it was the boys. I’d rather think he played Santa himself.”