It has been supposed that an owl is unable to see in the daytime, but probably this is not true.  He can see better at dusk than we can, but when it is really dark he cannot see at all.  He hunts at night, because rats and mice do not often venture out in the daytime.

Unless he is free, an owl is miserable.  It is cruel to keep him caged, because it makes him ill and unhappy.  When he is at liberty he is a good friend to the farmer.

THE WOUNDED CURLEW.

By yonder sandy cove where, every day,
   The tide flows in and out,
A lonely bird in sober brown and gray
   Limps patiently about;

And round the basin’s edge, o’er stones and sand,
   And many a fringing weed,
He steals, or on the rocky ledge doth stand,
   Crying, with none to heed.

But sometimes from the distance he can hear
   His comrades’ swift reply;
Sometimes the air rings with their music clear,
   Sounding from sea and sky.

And then, oh, then his tender voice, so sweet,
   Is shaken with his pain,
For broken are his pinions strong and fleet,
   Never to soar again.

Wounded and lame and languishing he lives,
   Once glad and blithe and free,
And in his prison limits frets and strives
   His ancient self to be.

The little sandpipers about him play,
   The shining waves they skim,
Or round his feet they seek their food, and stay
   As if to comfort him.

My pity cannot help him, though his plaint
   Brings tears of wistfulness;
Still must he grieve and mourn, forlorn and faint,
   None may his wrong redress.

O bright-eyed boy! was there no better way
   A moment’s joy to gain
Than to make sorrow that must mar the day
   With such despairing pain?

O children, drop the gun, the cruel stone! 
   Oh, listen to my words,
And hear with me the wounded curlew moan—­
   Have mercy on the birds! 
                     Celia Thaxter.

THE SANDPIPER.

Across the narrow beach, we flit,
   One little sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,
   The scattered driftwood bleached and dry. 
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
   The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,
As up and down the beach we flit,—­
   One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along,
   Uttering his faint and mournful cry;
He starts not at my fitful song,
   Or flash of fluttering drapery;
He has no thought of any wrong,
   He scans me with a fearless eye,—­
Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong,
   The little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
   When the loosed storm breaks furiously? 
My driftwood fire will burn so bright! 
   To what warm shelter canst thou fly? 
I do not fear for thee, though wroth
   The tempest rushes through the sky: 
For are we not God’s children both,
   Thou, little sandpiper, and I? 
                        Celia Thaxter.