Mr. Thompson says that he was sitting under an old oak-tree, not far from the Long Island Sound; he had been watching the sunset, and was now musing, with his eyes wandering from the gold and crimson clouds to the blue water and the ground at his feet. Suddenly his attention was arrested by a globular object by his side, about the size of a small marble. He poked it attentively with his cane, and murmured: "Owls' pellets; there must be a nest in the tree. Now those owls must be strange birds; they eat a mouse or bird entire, and then spit out the bones and skin, or feathers, in a round ball like this. Let me see," he continued, turning the pellet over carefully with his knife; "this fellow has been eating a mouse, for here is the skull and skin. I wonder where the nest is? I'd get the young ones, and—and—" and Mr. Thompson began to nod—"and give 'em to—"
"To who-o?" inquired a voice just above his head.
"To—to—to Miss—" continued Mr. Thompson, drowsily.
"To who?" repeated the voice.
"Who-o-o-o?" echoed Mr. Thompson, in strong nasal tones, and his head dropped on his breast.
"Now you begin to talk," said the voice. "I have watched you for a long time, and I knew you must be a relation of ours from your looks and actions, and now it is proved by your voice, though you don't speak loud."
Mr. Thompson says that the moment he nodded he was perfectly aware of all that was going on, and looked up to see who was speaking. There on a branch just above his head sat a large white owl, with his great eyes staring directly at him.
"Come up here," said the owl.
"How?" inquired Mr. Thompson.
"Fly, stupid!" replied the owl.