CHILDREN OF THE SUN. 55 
the climber turned, belly up, the flash of a 
throat whiter than was ever throat of mouse. 
It was a bird, little and wonderful, and full of 
restless, quiet life—a whitethroat, the ‘ nettle- 
creeper’ of the country-people. And yester- 
day, last evening, it had been—oh, somewhere 
on the other side of the English Channel, 
journeying through wind and storm. 
But the mouse was here, too, and, as the 
bird climbed slowly to the top of the hedge, 
the mouse followed, stealth incarnate. Heaven 
knows whether he meant murder! He was 
very, very hungry. 
On the top of the hedge the whitethroat 
thrust up his head into the open, and the 
snowy gleam of his throat flashed to big eyes 
watching a dozen yards away. 
Take a brown owl—all round and wise and 
large-eyed—and reduce him to little more than 
the size of a thrush, but perfectly round. The 
result is a miniature owl; the result is quaint ; 
the result is laughable. It is also the little 
owl which the owner of the eyes was. 
He darted along the top of the hedge. He 
aimed with his claws for the unsuspecting 
whitethroat. 
Then he was over the spot, hurtling on, and 
he held a struggling mouse in his claws. He 
perhaps wondered how on earth it got there. 
