Sometimes as I sit in my Ivy Bush, and the moon shines on the spiders’ webs and reminds me of the threads of her hair, on a mild, sleepy night, if there’s nothing stirring but the ivy boughs; sitting, I say, blinking between a dream and a doze, I fancy I see her face close to mine, as it was that day with the wicker work between.  Our eyes looking at each other, and our fluffiness mixed up by the wind.  Then I try to remember all the kind things she said to me to coax me to leave my ivy bush, and go to live on the nursery clock.  But I can’t remember half.  I was in such a rage at the time, and when you are in a rage you miss a good deal, and forget a good deal.

I know that at last she left off talking to me, and I could see her wise eyes swimming in tears.  Then she left me alone under the cloth.

“Well, Miss,” said the coachman, “you don’t make much of him, do ye?  He’s a Tartar, Miss, I’m afraid.”

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“I think, Williams, that he’s too old.  Captain Barton’s owl was a little owlet when he first got him.  I shall never tame this one, Williams, and I never was so disappointed in all my life.  Captain Barton said he kept an owl to keep himself good and wise, because nobody could be foolish in the face of an owl sitting on his clock.  He says both his godfathers are dead, and he has taken his owl for his godfather.  These are his jokes, Williams, but I had set my heart on having an owl on the nursery clock.  I do think I have never wished so much for anything in the world as that Tom’s owl would be our Bird of Wisdom.  But he never will.  He will never let me tame him.  He wants to be a wild owl all his life.  I love him very much, and I should like him to have what he wants, and not be miserable.  Please thank Tom very much, and please ask him to let him go.”

“I’m sorry I brought him, Miss, to trouble you,” said the coachman.  “But Tom won’t let him go.  He’d a lot of trouble catching him, and if he’s no good to you, Tom’ll be glad of him to stuff.  He’s got some glass eyes out of a stuffed fox the moths ate, and he’s bent on stuffing an owl, is Tom.  The eyes would be too big for a pheasant, but they’ll look well enough in an owl, he thinks.”

My hearing is very acute, and not a word of that Bad Boy’s brutal intentions was lost on me.  I shrunk among my feathers and shivered with despair; but when I heard the voice of Little Miss I rounded my ear once more.

“No, Williams, no!  He must not be stuffed.  Oh, please beg Tom to come to me.  Perhaps I can give him something to persuade him not.  If he must stuff an owl, please, please let him stuff a strange owl.  One I haven’t made friends with.  Not this one.  He is very wild, but he is very lovely and soft, and I do so want him to be let go.”

“Well, Miss, I’ll send Tom, and you can settle it with him.  All I say, he’s a Tartar, and stuffing’s too good for him.”

Whether she bribed Tom, or persuaded him, I don’t know, but Little Miss got her way, and that Bad Boy let me go, and I went back to my Ivy Bush.