“The name howlet is connected in its derivation with the word howl, and the bird called by that name is indeed remarkable for its cry, not unlike a wolf’s howl. When at the close of a somber winter day the wind whips the snow and moans in the trees, one may often hear a frightful cry, prolonged and mournful, rising from the dark depths of the forest[[123]]—hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo, hoo-hoo. Then in the lonely cottage the frightened mother makes the sign of the cross, while her little ones press close to her, crying, and saying, ‘The wolves are coming.’ Don’t be uneasy, good people; it is not a wolf, it is an owl hoo-hooing, sounding its war-cry from the top of some hollow oak and getting ready for its nightly rounds.
Gnome-owl with Captured Mouse
“In summer-time the howlet lives in the woods. It hunts by preference field-mice and meadow-mice, which it swallows whole, afterward throwing up the skin and bones rolled into a ball. The little birds that worry it so unmercifully in the daytime, whenever they get a chance to come upon it unawares in the sunlight, are not safe from its beak in the hours of darkness if the night-bird can pounce upon them after first frightening them with its terrible hoo-hoo. Keep as still as mice in your hiding-places, you finches and redbreasts and tomtits, and don’t betray yourselves by giving voice to your alarm. Let the owl hoo-hoo as much as it pleases. If you make a sound you are lost.
“If the fields prove disappointing as a hunting-ground, the owl makes bold to approach dwelling-houses and finds its way into barns, there to play [[124]]the part of cat and thus make good the title of ‘hooting cat’ which has been given it. For patience and skill in catching rats and mice it rivals Raminagrobis[1] himself. It is a guest to be treated with respect when hunger compels it to visit our granaries. After completing its nightly rounds it returns to the woods early in the morning, hides in the densest thickets or in the trees having the most abundant foliage, and there passes the day silent and motionless. In winter its home is always in the hollow of some old tree trunk. It lays its eggs in the abandoned nests of magpies, crows, buzzards, and kestrels; and these eggs, of a dingy gray color, are about as large as a pullet’s, but nearly round.
“The belfry-owl, also known as the barn-owl, is an ungainly bird rather smaller than the howlet. Its plumage, however, is not wanting in elegance, being red on the back, sprinkled with gray and brown and prettily dotted with white points alternating with dark ones, and white underneath, with or without brown spots. The eyes are deep-set and each is encircled by a ring of fine white feathers almost like hair. A little collar bordered with red frames the face. The beak is whitish, and the claws are covered only with a soft white down, very short, under which the pink flesh can be seen. This bird has none of the proud bearing of the eagle-owl and the red owl; it carries itself awkwardly with an embarrassed, almost shamefaced look. Humpbacked [[125]]and with wings hanging down, face sad and scowling, and legs long and ungainly—such is the barn-owl’s appearance in repose. As if to complete its ungraceful attitude, the bird, whenever anything disturbs it, teeters from side to side in a ludicrous fashion, with haggard eyes and wings slightly raised.”
“And what is the teetering for?” asked Jules.
“No doubt to frighten its enemy. In time of danger the barn-owl utters a harsh, grating cry—craa! craa! craa!—which often frightens away the enemy. The owl’s habitual cry in the silence of the night is a mournful, heavy breathing not unlike the snoring of a man sleeping with his mouth open. To these cries add the darkness of the night, the near neighborhood of churches and cemeteries, and you will understand how the innocent barn-owl has managed to frighten children, women, and even men; you will be able to see why it has the reputation of being a funeral bird, the bird of death, summoning to the cemetery one of the persons living in the house it visits. The French name, effraie (fright), has reference to these superstitious terrors; it designates the bird that frightens with its nightly chant those who are foolish enough to believe in ghosts and sorcerers.”
“It may practise its chant on our roof as much as it likes,” Jules declared boldly; “it won’t scare me a bit.”
“Nor would it scare any one else if everybody would listen to reason instead of putting faith in [[126]]ridiculous stories. Fear, like cruelty, is the daughter of ignorance. Train your reason, accustom yourselves to see things as they really are, and foolish fears will be banished.