*7 
I 
In our own times we find that the village maid cannot 
return home from seeing her dying swain, without a doleful 
salutation from the owl:— 
Thus homeward as she hopeless went, 
The churchyard path along-. 
The blast grew cold, the dark owl scream’d 
Her lover's funeral song. 
Amongst the numberless verses which might be quoted 
against the family of the owl, I think I only know of one little 
ode which expresses any pity for it. Our nursery maid used to 
- sing it to the tune of the Storm, “ Cease, rude Boreas, blustering 
railer.” I remember the first two stanzas of it: — 
Once I was a monarch’s daughter, 
And sat on a lady’s knee : 
Bnt am now a nightly rover. 
Banish’d to the ivy tree. 
Crying hoo, hoo. hoo, hco. hoo. hoo. 
Hoo, hoo, hoo. my feet are cold! 
Pity me, for here you see me, 
Persecuted, poor, and old. 
I beg the reader’s pardon for this exordium. I have intro¬ 
duced it, in order to show how little chance there has been,, 
from days long passed and gone to the present time of studying 
the haunts and economy of the owl, because its unmerited bad 
name has created it a host of foes, and doomed it to destruction 
from all quarters. Some few, certainly, from time to time, have 
been kept in cages and in aviaries. But nature rarely thrives in 
captivity, and very seldom appears in her true character when 
she is encumbered with chains, or is to be looked at by the pass¬ 
ing crowd through bars of iron. However, the scene is now 
going to change; and I trust that the reader will contemplate- 
the owl with more friendly feelings and quite under different 
circumstances. Here, no rude school-boy ever approaches its 
retreat; and those who once dreaded its diabolical doings are- 
now fully satified that it no longer meddles with their destinies,, 
or has anything to do with the repose of their departed friends. 
Indeed, human wretches, in the shape of body-snatchers, seenr 
-V 
