“OLD HEAD HUNTER” 
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“In the hollow tree, in the old gray tower 
The spectral owl doth dwell; 
Dull, hated, despised, in the sunshine hour. 
But at dusk—he’s abroad and well! 
Not a bird of the forest e’er mates with him— 
All mark him outright, by day: 
But at night, when the woods grow still and dim. 
The boldest will shrink away! 
O when night falls, and roosts the fowl, 
Then, then, is the reign of the Horned Owl.” 
Barrx Corwall. 
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T was a brilliant, starry night, in early Autumn. A full 
moon rode high in the vaulted heavens and shed its rich, 
mellow rays over fields and forests, where, filtering through A 
the leaves of the dark and silent trees it cast fantastic splotches 
of light upon the woodland paths. The chirp of crickets and the 
monotonous drone of numerous other nocturnal insects still 
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filled the air, while the occasional call of some night bird 
startled the intruder with its weird and mysterious sounds. 
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During a lull in the insect serenade there came floating 
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upon the crisp night wind the hoarse, discordant hoot of a great 
