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bark so fiercely at the falling nuts in autumn. 

 They each give an air of wildness to the sur- 

 roundings, and one feels as if the trees had 

 found an expressive voice. I can not compre- 

 hend why the owl should invariably be associ- 

 ated with gloom and deeds of evil, or that his 

 voice should allow us to forget for a moment his 

 accomplishments as a mouser. When other 

 birds have deserted us, and even the squirrel 

 remains in his hollow tree, the cry of the owl 

 rings out sonorously on the winter twilight, " I 

 am here ! " Well may Thoreau rejoice that 

 there are owls, and Jesse admire their soft and 

 silent flight. Charles Lotin Hildreth is superla- 

 tively the poet-laureate of the bird of wisdom. 

 Shakespeare, Barry Cornwall, Shelley, Words- 

 worth, Jean Ingelow, and Tennyson must each 

 and all give place to his apostrophe. Take the 

 opening and the closing stanzas, for instance : 



There is no flame of sunset on the hill, 

 There is no flush of twilight in the plain ; 



The day is dead, the wind is weird and shrill ; 

 Amid the gloom the sheeted shapes of rain 



Glide to and fro with stealthy feet and still, 

 And, wilder than the wood's autumnal moan, 

 A voice wails through the night, " Alone, alone ! M 



Night deepens on the haggard close of day 

 With wilder clamor of the wind and rain ; 



