Mr. Thompson flapped his arms obediently, and for a moment was somewhat surprised to find that he had become transformed into an owl.
"That was done very quietly," he murmured.
"Of course; owls do everything quietly."
Mr. Thompson settled himself on the branch, and fluffed up his feathers as naturally as if he had been used to it all his life.
"So you have had field mice for dinner," he said, after a few moments' hesitation.
"Yes," answered the owl, "and very good eating they are, too. Do you know," he continued, reflectively, "I can't see why the farmers are so opposed to us. We eat up lots of mice and grubs of different kinds."
"And young chickens sometimes," ventured Mr. Thompson.
"Barely," replied the owl; "not when we can get anything else. But come down-stairs and see the family;" and leading the way into the hollow tree, the owl climbed down to the nest. It was quite at the bottom of the tree, and was made of dried grass and feathers. In it were four young owls, and comical-looking birds they were, too, with their great round eyes and fluffy gray down.
After complimenting the old owl on the beauty of his family, Mr. Thompson remarked, "I notice that your feathers are not like other birds', but a sort of soft furry down."
"That is in order that we should make as little noise as possible when flying, so that we can come upon our game unaware of our presence," said the owl, climbing out of the nest. Mr. Thompson followed, and seated again on the limb, he seemed for a moment to be lost in thought.