BIRDS OF NIGHT. 43 



then, stepping back, cautiously watch. Is it a rat ? 

 No, it is Patch stretched out and flattened just 

 like one. I want him now, but he does not choose 

 to come, and starts on the war-path. Running like 

 a partridge, and as quickly, out from his hiding- 

 place, he stands and defies his master. Yell upon 

 yell comes as if from some infuriated cat. In snaps, 

 barks, and pig-like squeaks, all mixed up, he vents 

 his little grievance. I sue for peace, and any one 

 not knowing what it was would think it a mortal 

 combat going on. 



After being placed in his cage he is taken up-stairs 

 to his mistress to be soothed down. To hear his 

 chatter then you would think it came from some 

 injured magpie rather than from a little owl. The 

 end of it is that he is let out, and at once he perches 

 on her hand. He is as happy as a king and as 

 proud as a peacock when there : and then is the 

 time to see Patch in his glory. He draws himself 

 up to his full height, raises the feathers on his head 

 to a crest, and looks at me like a demented owl ; 

 yelping presently, he looks at me next with the 

 eyes of a dog ; at other times an expression almost 

 human comes into them. I should like to know 



