One by one the boys heard the news. The whole school came flocking out to look upon the objects of their late terror. Gradually the whole story came out, and the boys, in their sudden recoil from a general panic, now gave way to the wildest uproar and merriment. A laughing procession followed the donkey to his rural home, while Pat took the owl down into the kitchen to get some meat for it from Solomon.
Meanwhile Solomon had heard of the revelation of the dark mystery, and was running out to satisfy himself, when he met Pat half way.
“O, de sakes, now!” cried old Solomon. “What dis heah scubbry dat hab turn up on dis smilin an ’spicious morn. Whar’s dat ar an’mal what hab ben kickin up sech a ’menjous bobberation, an ob whose ’sploits I hab heard so much? Am dis heah de ’sterious an stror’ny phiantium dat hab frikened dis ’stracted ole nigga man mos to deff?”
“Sure an here he is,” said Pat, holding forward the bird, “an as fine a owl as ye’d wish fur till clap yer eyes on, so he is.”
Solomon stood looking at the owl for a few moments. Then he made a low bow, with absurd extravagance of gesture. Then he burst forth in a strange tone, which seemed like a desperate attempt at sarcasm.
“Mas’r Owl, sah,” said he, rolling up his eyes and spreading out his hands,—“Mas’r Owl, sah, good morn, sah. I’se so drefful glad to see you, sah!—such a ’mendious honna, sah!”
He then made another low bow, after which he went on with an attempt at more scathing sarcasm than ever, in which there was also visible a tinge of something like indignation.
“Mas’r Owl, sah, ar you awah, sah, dat you hab ben ’ferin berry much wid de ’pose ob an aged but spectb’l gem’n ob colla, sah? a pus’n, sah, dat’s bettan a dozen ob you, sah—bein as he is a Granpanderdrum, an ’sides bein fessa ob de cool and airy ’partment in dis yah ’Cad’my—fessa, sah, ob ebba so many yeahs’ stan’in, sah—fren ob de docta, sah, an not a pus’n to be ’posed on, sah? Do you know what you are, sah? You’re a mis’ble darky, sah—no better’n a crow, sah! Do you know what I’m gwino to do, sah, dis bressed moment, sah? I’ve biled turkeys, an chickens, an geese, an ducks, an pattidges, an quails, an snipes, but I hab nebba biled a owl. Wal, dat ar’s jest what I’m a gwine to do now, sah. Yes, sah, I’m ’termined ’pon dat ar. In you go to de pot, body, bones, an beak—horns, tail, an all, sah.”
“An what’s the use?” said Pat: “shure he isn’t a poll parrot, that can talk back at ye an give ye as gud as he gets. He’s ony an owl, an he can’t spake a wurrud, so he can’t.
“Any how, I’se gwine to bile him dis bressed minit.”