OWLS ON A FROLIC.

The owls are abroad on a mad carouse, Waking the echoes far and wide; They whirl in a crowd through the ruined church, Or up to the belfry glide. The little screech-owl makes a horrid din; While the great white owl looks wise; And the horned owl nods his head, and blinks; As around the lamp he flies. The lamp is a cup, half filled with oil, That swings from a broken beam; And, over the traveler sleeping below, It throws but a dusky gleam. The owls have no fear of the burning wick— ’Tis only a cotton loop— They’re after the oil in the swinging cup, And down on its brim they swoop. The weary traveler, sound asleep, Hears naught of the noise o’erhead, A rickety chair as a bedstead serves, His overcoat is his bed. With the sweep of the wings the lamp upsets, While the gurgling oil o’erflows With a drip, and a rush, on the great owl’s tail, A splash on the traveler’s nose. He’s up in a trice, and, seizing a broom, He arms himself for a fight. But all is still in the ruined church; For the owls are out—and his light.