A DEAD-WATER VIGIL i8i 



seemed as if the tribe of Reynard had sole possession 

 of the ridges. Their music was not altogether pleas- 

 ing. The bark of a fox is sharp and snarling and the 

 melody made by a chorus of them will out-snarl and 

 out-reach any amateur quartet that ever punished the 

 ears of an unoffending audience. 



The night dragged on. I grew sleepy, tired and 

 hungry, while my spirit was depressed and my pa- 

 tience worn out by the tedious length and depth of 

 the darkness. I will say here — and I am rather proud 

 to say it — that I have no temperament, nor any other 

 quality that fits me for a comrade with the owl ; at 

 least, none that could rob me of my taste for the light 

 of day. Therefore, if the bird of ill-omen insists upon 

 shrieking his " songs of death " he must do it in other 

 company than mine. I'll have none of him. But 

 here is a question that may stagger the wit of the 

 Shakespearean reader to answer : How, in the name of 

 all that is incredible, did the great dramatist discover 

 merriment in the note of an owl ? Yet he did so, un- 

 less his " merry " epithet in Hiems' song, at the end 

 of Love's Labor's Lost, be one of his gibes : 



** When blood is nipped and ways be fool, 

 Then nightly sings the staring owl 



Tu-who ! 

 Tu-whit ! Tn-who ! A merry note 

 While greasy Joan doth keel the pot." 



No, no, William, my boy ; though there may be much 



