I flew at
the housemaid, and she flew into the house. Then I rolled over and
growled and hissed under my beak, and tried to hide my eyes in my
feathers.
"Little Miss won't tame me," I muttered.
[Illustration]
She did not try long. When she heard of me she came running out, the
wind blowing her fluffy hair about her face, and the sun shining on it.
Fluffed out by the wind, and changing colour in the light and shade, the
hair down her back is not entirely unlike the feathers of my own, though
less sober perhaps in its tints. Like mine it makes a small head look
large, and as she had big wise eyes, I have seen creatures less like an
owl than Little Miss. Her voice is not so hoarse as mine. It is clear
and soft, as I heard when she spoke:
"Oh, _how_ good of you! And how good of Tom! I do so love owls. I
always get Mary to put the silver owl by me at luncheon, though I am
not allowed to eat pepper. And I have a brown owl, a china one, sitting
on a book for a letter weight. He came from Germany. And Captain Barton
gave me an owl pencil-case on my birthday, because I liked hearing
about his real owl, but, oh, I never hoped I should have a real owl of
my very own. It _was_ kind of Tom.
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