WINTER'S EVE 203 



the breast feathers was turned a dull gray 

 by the rain's bedragglement; the muscles 

 of the shoulder had withered, though the 

 sinews were dry and silky. The feet were 

 clenched as though the bird had died in 

 agony after the shot had rung out and it 

 sunk to the ground. An owl rarely dies 

 immediately it is shot; it lies back, if badly 

 hit, resting lightly on its downy wings and 

 stares with a mournful anguish, as though 

 puzzled, and conscious that this is farewell 

 to its mate. Owls pair for life, and, like 

 most birds, their lives are ideal. It seemed 

 to me, regarding the skeleton, a sadness 

 that all that was left of a beautiful bird was 

 a wasted bundle of bones and feathers, 

 flung among the thorns. 



Woo-loo-ivoo-loo-woo-o-oo ! the brown owl 

 calls in the night. And while I am here on 

 earth, let me be in the fields where I can see 

 the bright stars, and dream as my birds of 

 mystery pass in silence and alone. 



