is not the right word here—Audubon should
have said "lofty exultation."

Uniform quickness of vision, does not
perhaps characterise all the tribe, for the
ornithologist remarks: "Their power of sight
during the day seems to be of an equivocal
character, as I once saw one alight on the
back of a cow, which it left so suddenly after,
when the cow moved, as to prove to me that
the owl had mistaken the object on which it
perched for something else." With all sub-
mission to Mr. Audubon, his assertion can
only prove—if prove it does—that that
particular owl was short-sighted. I myself once
said "Pretty Poll" to a pair of green slippers
at an open window on the opposite side
of the street; taking them for a parrot, but
this was only evidence of a casual mistake.
Besides, how does he know that this owl,
belonging to a race remarkable for oddity, did
not meditate some famous practical joke when
the cow suddenly discovered who was on her
back?

It is a singular fact, and shows what
effect popular prejudice has on the best-
regulated minds, that even those who may be
looked upon as the Owl's best friends, cannot
write much about him without saying some-
thing ill-natured; They resemble the Spartan
who voted for the banishment of Aristides
because he was tired of hearing him well-
spoken of. Yarrell, for instance, falls into the
common error from which Audubon could not
extricate himself, greatly as the American
was indebted to the Owl for entertainment
during his nocturnal campings out.
"Owls," Mr. Yarrell remarks, "have but
little external beauty of form; the head
is large, the expression grotesque, the body
bulky in appearance." These things are
not, strictly speaking, beauties; but the
possessor of them may have reason to rejoice
in mental qualities to which those which are
merely personal are as nothing. I know
more than one eminent counsel, destined some
day, perhaps, to adorn the bench, of whom
the same might be quite as truly said. Yarrell
adds, however: "Their plumage is soft and
downy; their flight is easy and buoyant, but
not rapid, and from the soft texture of their
feathers, is performed without noise." If he
were describing a presentation at Court he
could scarcely pronounce a more finished
eulogium; motion without noise. I wish the
maid-of all-work where I lodge would make
the Owl her model.

Let us look at the moral qualities of the
Owl. Yarrell states that "Owls have been
noticed for an extraordinary attachment to
their young," and Dr. Stanley, the late Bishop
of Norwich, records a very interesting anecdote
of a pair of old birds that carried dead
game every night to one of their little ones
which had been captured. To act up to the
duties of a parent is what many of "us
youth" would like our fathers and mothers
to do more frequently; we don't ask them
for dead game, except when we want to give
a dinner-party—but only for a handsome
cheque now and then, just to keep us—we
will say—going. Connubial felicity is another
marked feature of the Owl's domestic life.
Observe him as he sits beside his mate, and
note her conduct also: is there anything like
bickering between them? They nestle as
closely to each other as possible, and silently
enjoy each other's society, except at those
moments when, the moon shining brightly on
the ivied tower, they alternately indulge in
song. How provident, also, is the Owl!
Aldrovandus says, it purveys well for its
young, and so plentifully that, a person being
in the neighbourhood of the nest of them,
may be supplied therefrom with dainties,
such as leverets and rabbits, and yet leave
enough to satisfy the young birds. There is
no better sign of good housekeeping than
that of having a well-stocked larder. Pennant
alludes to the same liberal thrift, observing
that, when satisfied, the Owl hides
(that is to say, carefully puts by), the re-
mainder of its meat like a dog. The fact of
the Owl's utility is of old date. Dale, the
historian of Norwich, states that in the year
fifteen hundred and eighty, at Hallowtide,
an army of mice so overran the marshes
near South Minster, that they ate up the
grass to the very roots; but at length a
great number of Strange Painted Owls
came and devoured all the mice. What
the appearance of the skies is to the
shepherd, the voice of the owl conveys to the
thoughtful observer after dark. Willsford,
in his Nature's Secrets, says:—"Owls
whooping after sunset and in the night
foreshows a fair day to ensue; but if she names
herself in French (Huette) expect then fickle
and inconstant weather, but most usually
rain." Of the regularity of the habits of the
Owl, take this in proof: "The cry of the Scops-
eared owl (Strix Scops)" says Yarrell, "is
kew, kew—whence its Florentine name, Chiù
—perpetual through the night at regular intervals
of two seconds, as regular as the ticking
of a clock." Here we have evidence of a
number of estimable qualities possessed by
the Owl: he is a kind father, an affectionate
husband, a generous and yet a frugal steward,
an admirable barometer, a watchman fit to
be numbered A1 in the metropolitan police;
and, to sum up all, a benefactor (in the matter
of  mice), to the whole agricultural
community. There are great ones on this
earth who have failed to merit such eulogy.
The owl's disposition, too, is the very
reverse of gloomy and morose, as Pliny and
his followers would have it. Let us first hear
what some of these prejudiced fellows say.
The Romans, easily led by the nose, went so
far as to make their city undergo a lustration
on one occasion because a Bubo maximus
(the great horned owl), called by Pliny,
spitefully, B. funebris, and Noctis monstrosum,
accidentally strayed into the Capitol.