THE BARN OWL. 15 
pen of Sir William Jardine. Still, however, me- 
thinks that it ought to be taken in a somewhat 
diluted state; we know full well that most extra- 
ordinary examples of splendid talent do, from time 
to time, make their appearance on the world’s 
wide stage. Thus, Franklin brought down fire from 
the skies: —Eripuit fulmen ccelo, sceptrumque 
tyrannis.” Paganini has led all London captive, 
by a single piece of twisted catgut: — “Tu potes 
reges comitesque stultos ducere.” Leibnitz tells 
us of a dog in Germany that could pronounce 
distinctly thirty words. Goldsmith informs us that 
he once heard a raven whistle the tune of the 
“Shamrock,” with great distinctness, truth, and 
humour. With these splendid examples before our 
eyes, may we not be inclined to suppose that the 
barn owl which Sir William shot, in the absolute 
act of hooting, may have been a gifted bird, of 
superior parts and knowledge (una de multis, as 
Horace said of Miss Danaus), endowed, perhaps, 
from its early days with the faculty of hooting, 
or else skilled in the art by having been taught 
it by its neighbour, the tawny owl? I beg to 
remark, that though I unhesitatingly grant the 
faculty of hooting to this one particular individual 
owl, still I flatly refuse to believe that hooting is 
common to barn owls in general. Ovid, in his 
sixth book Fastorum, pointedly says that it screeched 
in his day : — 
« Est illis strigibus nomen ; sed nominis hujus 
Causa, quod horrenda stridere nocte solent,” 
