“O Grandmother! But why not? Didn’t he like the new clothes?”
“The Old Owl knows, my dear; I don’t.”
“Who’s the Old Owl, Granny?”
“I don’t exactly know, my dear. It’s what my mother used to say when we asked anything that puzzled her. It was said that the Old Owl was Nancy Besom, (a witch, my dear!) who took the shape of a bird, but couldn’t change her voice, and that that’s why the owl sits silent all day for fear she should betray herself by speaking, and has no singing voice like other birds. Many people used to go and consult the Old Owl at moon-rise, in my young days.”
“Did you ever go, Granny?”
“Once, very nearly, my dear.”
“Oh! tell us, Granny dear.—There are no Corpse-candles, Johnnie; it’s only moonlight,” he added consolingly, as Johnnie crept closer to his knee and pricked his little red ears.
“It was when your grandfather was courting me, my dears,” said the old lady, “and I couldn’t quite make up my mind. So I went to my mother, and said, ‘He’s this on the one side, but then he’s that on the other, and so on. Shall I say yes or no?’ And my mother said, ‘The Old Owl knows,’ for she was fairly puzzled. So says I, ‘I’ll go and ask her to-night, as sure as the moon rises.’
“So at moon-rise I went, and there in the white light by the gate stood your grandfather. ‘What are you doing here at this time o’ night?’ says I. ‘Watching your window,’ says he. ‘What are you doing here at this time o’ night?’ ‘The Old Owl knows,’ said I, and burst out crying.”
“What for?” said Johnnie.