OUR FRIENDS, THE BIRDS. 43 
“T found a nest once in a dark corner of my grand- 
father’s barn,” said “Artist.” “It had four blue tinted 
white eggs in it. I thought at first it was a hen’s 
nest, until I saw the eggs. I didn’t stay there long 
enough to see the young owls.” 
“Don’t you think the poets help to make the Owl 
an unpopular bird, Miss Sweet?” asked “Querist.” 
‘Perhaps so.” Poets usually call him a melancholy 
bird. 
‘The boding owl, upon the evening gale 
Sends forth her wild and melancholy wail.’’ 
‘‘The moping owl doth to the moon complain’’ 
and such expressions are very commonly found in 
poetry. Burns in his poem “To the Owl’ says: 
Sad bird of night, what sorrows call thee forth _ 
To vent thy plaints thus in the midnight hour? 
* * * * * * * * * * 
From some old tower thy melancholy dome, 
While the gray walls, and desert solitudes 
Return each note, responsive to the gloom 
Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods. 
There hooting, I will list, more pleased to thee 
Than ever lover to the nightingale; 
Or drooping wretch, oppressed with misery, 
Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 
