MR. THOMPSON AND THE OWLS.

BY ALLAN FORMAN.

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.

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.

Presently the owl remarked, reflectively: "It seems strange that every one should hate us as they do. If I fly near the house in the evening, the farmer shouts, 'Shoot the owl! he is after the chickens.' If I sit on a tree during the day, all the birds find me, and bother me half to death. And some naturalist comes along and tries to take my children away."

"I don't see how they can get them at the bottom of that hole," said Mr. Thompson.

"Well, you see, everybody don't know how," replied the owl, "but Frank Buckland, the great English naturalist, gives the best way. You see, our two weapons of defense are our beaks and our claws, so if we can't get the better of an enemy with our beaks we turn over on our backs and clutch it in our claws, and we don't let go in a hurry either. So you see this Buckland lets down a ball of worsted into the nest, and keeps it bobbing up and down till we catch hold of it; then he draws it up."

"That makes me think," said Mr. Thompson, aloud, forgetting the presence of the owl, "that I wanted one of the young ones to take to Miss—"

"To who?" interrupted the owl, angrily.

"To Miss—"

"To who-o-o-o?"

"To Miss Angelina," answered Mr. Thompson.

The owl puffed his feathers angrily, and the movement so disconcerted Mr. Thompson that he lost his balance and fell from the branch. As he picked himself up, the owl uttered a derisive "To who," and flew away. It was quite late, and as Mr. Thompson walked slowly home, he murmured, "I'll try that ball and string method of catching owls to-morrow, but if they do more good than harm it seems a shame to disturb them, though I do want to give one to—"

"To who?" came the voice of the owl from the depths of the woods.

Mr. Thompson paused. "I guess I'll leave them alone," he muttered, as he strode along again.

"Good for you-u-u," shouted the owl, which last reply settled Mr. Thompson's resolution, and Miss Angelina had no young owl.