“That doesn’t sound very wise,” said Bobbie, reading aloud, “though Mr. Shouter’s preaching sounds like that to me sometimes.”
“Does it?” replied mamma, suppressing a smile, “well, go on and see what else he says.”
“I’m not a Screech Owl, nor a Barn Owl, nor a Great Horned Owl, nor a Long-eared Owl, though I am related to each of them. Mr. Screech Owl thinks he is a singer, and so does Mr. Horned Owl. Between you and me, I think both their songs most doleful ditties. One gentleman says Mr. Horned Owl hoots in B flat, another says in F sharp, and another in A flat. I must confess it all sounds very flat to me. I don’t pretend to sing at all. Sometimes I feel like saying something, just to hear the sound of my own voice, and then I shout ‘Hoo, hoo, hoo, hoo!’ as loud as I can. If there are little Owls in the nest, and anything approaches them, I give a shrill, hollow cry, at the same time snapping my bill spitefully.
“I am sometimes called the Marsh Owl, because I frequent the grassy marshes instead of the woods. I don’t confine myself to prowling around only in the night time, like some Owls I know, but you will see me about also on dark days, and sometimes even when the sun is shining.
“My eyes, you see, are round and yellow just like a cat’s, shining in the dark like his. Indeed there is a good deal of the cat in my nature. When stealing on my prey I go about it just as stealthily as he does. Like him I catch mice too, but I also like beetles, gophers, and all sorts of little water birds.
“I have only two eyes, but I have two sets of eyelids. One I draw over my eyes in the day time, a thin sort of curtain to keep out the light, and the other a heavy curtain which I pull down when I go to sleep. I’m going to sleep now. Good night! or, rather, good morning!”