It is all owing to that little girl; the one with the fluffy hair and the wise eyes.  As an Observer I have noticed that not only I, but other people, seem to do what she wants, and as a Wiseacre I have reflected upon it as strange, because her temper is as soft and fluffy as her hair (which mine is not), and she always seems ready to give way to others (which is never my case—­if I can help it).  On the occasion I am about to speak of, I could not help it.

[Illustration]

It was last summer that that Bad Boy caught me, and squeezed me into a wicker cage.  Little did I think I should ever live to be so poked out, and rummaged, and torn to shreds by such a thing as a boy!  I bit him, but he got me into the cage and put a cloth over it.  Then he took me to his father, who took me to the front door of the house, where he is coachman and gardener, and asked for Little Miss to come out and see the new pet Tom had caught for her.

“It’s a nasty-tempered brute, but she’s such a one for taming things,” said the coachman, whipping off the cloth to show me to the housemaid, and letting in a glare of light that irritated me to a frenzy.  I flew at the housemaid, and she flew into the house.  Then I rolled over and growled and hissed under my beak, and tried to hide my eyes in my feathers.

“Little Miss won’t tame me,” I muttered.

[Illustration]

She did not try long.  When she heard of me she came running out, the wind blowing her fluffy hair about her face, and the sun shining on it.  Fluffed out by the wind, and changing colour in the light and shade, the hair down her back is not entirely unlike the feathers of my own, though less sober perhaps in its tints.  Like mine it makes a small head look large, and as she had big wise eyes, I have seen creatures less like an owl than Little Miss.  Her voice is not so hoarse as mine.  It is clear and soft, as I heard when she spoke: 

“Oh, how good of you!  And how good of Tom!  I do so love owls.  I always get Mary to put the silver owl by me at luncheon, though I am not allowed to eat pepper.  And I have a brown owl, a china one, sitting on a book for a letter weight.  He came from Germany.  And Captain Barton gave me an owl pencil-case on my birthday, because I liked hearing about his real owl, but, oh, I never hoped I should have a real owl of my very own.  It was kind of Tom.”

[Illustration]

To hear that Bad Boy called kind was too much for endurance, and I let them see how savage I felt.  If the wicker work had not been very strong the cage would not have held me.

“He’s a Tartar,” said the coachman.

“Oh no, Williams!” said Little Miss, “he’s only frightened by the light.  Give me the cloth, please.”

“Take care, Miss.  He’ll bite you,” cried the coachman, as she put the cloth over the cage, and then over her own head.

“No he won’t!  I don’t mind his snapping and hissing.  I want him to see me, and know me.  Then perhaps he’ll get to like me, and be tame, and sit on the nursery clock and look wise.  Captain Barton’s owl used to sit on his clock.  Poor fellow!  Dear old owlie!  Don’t growl, my owl.  Can you hoot, darling?  I should like to hear you hoot.”