184 WILD LIFE IX CHINA. 



Not a bird of the forest e'er mates with him. 



All mock him outright by daj': 

 But at night, when the woods grow still and dim. 

 The boldest will shrink away. 



Oh, when the night falls, and roosts the fowl. 

 Then, then is the reign of the horned owl. 



Mourn not for the owl, nor his gloomy plight! 



The owl, hath his share of good. 

 If a prisoner he be in the broad daylight, 



He is lord in the dark greenwood. 

 Nor lonely the bird, nor his ghostly mate: 



They are each unto each a pride: 

 Thrice fonder, perhaps, since a strange dark fate 

 Hath rent them from all beside. 



So when the night falls and dogs do howl. 

 Sing ho! for the reign of the horned owl! 

 We know not alwaj' 

 Who are kings by day. 

 But the king of the night is the bold, brown owl! 



Since these chats began we have followed our feathered 

 friends through the course of a revolving year. We began 

 with the migrants going north. These have now come back 

 once more, and during the period of their absence we have 

 had the pleasure of seeing those which love the sun and bask 

 in its warmth. The3- too have gone — for a while. The trees 

 are bare; the %voods are silent. Only the bulbul and the 

 myna just now enliven us with their chatter or their warble 

 as the case may be, for as the Chinese poet says, 

 The sedge is withered from the lake. 

 And no bird sings. 

 Yet the days are lengthening. Spring is promised once 

 again, and then — da capo! 



