The Old Owl.

The old owl

The old owl

I.Theowl is a bird that flaps alongWith a lonely loud halloo;He has but one unceasing song,To whit, to whit, to woo.In dusky light he takes his flight,The twilight dim is the time for him,And when the midnight scowls,—’Tis then he silently prowls,And hunts the mice and moles.II.A lonely owl once built her nestIn the hole of a hollow tree,And she with a fine young brood was blestAs ever owl could be.She loved her young, and as they clungBeneath her downy wing,She o’er them oft, on a branch aloft,As they reposed below,Would shout and sing, while the woods would ring,To whit, to whit, to woo.III.A boy came by that hollow tree,With a fierce and wild halloo;And this the birds, all startled heard,And answered,to whit, to woo.As the old bird shrieked, the young ones squeaked;“Oh ho!” said the boy,In a frantic joy,“An owl is the bird for me,And here are its young ones three.”Then with eager look,He that bird’s-nest took;While plaintive and slow,Rose a note of woFrom the owl in its hollow tree,To whit, to whit, to woo.IV.That boy now took his victims home,And put them in a cage;And cooped up there,In their despair,They bit and scratched in rage;They caught his fingers once or twice,And made him scream with pain;And then he vowed,In curses loud,That they should all be slain.He tied them to a stake, and gotAn iron pin, and made it hot,To burn out their young eyes.“Ha, ha!” said he, “you’ll not bite me,You’ll not bite me again:”Then in the skyA wing flapped byThat seemed to stop his breath;’Twas the old owl, with a heavy scowl,Lamenting her young ones’ death—To whit, to whit, to woo.V.That boy grew up—became a man,Acruelman was he,His heart had grown as hard as stone,Which none but God could see.One dreary night,In the wan moonlight,Beneath that hollow treeHe vengeful stood, to spill the bloodOf a hated enemy.With a furious blow, he laid him low,Then plunged his knifeTo take his life,Deep to its haft,And wildly laughed,—“You will not again plague me.”But yet as he kneltO’er that foe, he feltA shudder that quailed all his blood’s full glow;For oh, he heard,On the tree that bird,The same old owl, o’er that murder foul,Cry,whit, to whit, to woo.VI.He fled—the owl’s reproaching cryStill ringing in his ears;But ah, ’twas in vain for the wretch to fly,So loaded with guilt and fears.He quick was caught,And to justice brought,And soon in prison lies.And oh, while there,In his deep despair,In lonely tears and sighs,He thought of the iron cage!And he thought of the cruel rage!!And the red-hot pin, that he once thrust in,To burn out the young bird’s eyes.Condemned to die—’twas his destinyTo die on that hollow tree,And there as he hung,And there as he swungIn the night-wind to and fro,That vengeful birdWas often heard,When scarcely a breath the forest stirred,In screamings high,All the night to cry,To whit, to whit, to woo.To whit, to whit, to woo.

I.Theowl is a bird that flaps alongWith a lonely loud halloo;He has but one unceasing song,To whit, to whit, to woo.In dusky light he takes his flight,The twilight dim is the time for him,And when the midnight scowls,—’Tis then he silently prowls,And hunts the mice and moles.II.A lonely owl once built her nestIn the hole of a hollow tree,And she with a fine young brood was blestAs ever owl could be.She loved her young, and as they clungBeneath her downy wing,She o’er them oft, on a branch aloft,As they reposed below,Would shout and sing, while the woods would ring,To whit, to whit, to woo.III.A boy came by that hollow tree,With a fierce and wild halloo;And this the birds, all startled heard,And answered,to whit, to woo.As the old bird shrieked, the young ones squeaked;“Oh ho!” said the boy,In a frantic joy,“An owl is the bird for me,And here are its young ones three.”Then with eager look,He that bird’s-nest took;While plaintive and slow,Rose a note of woFrom the owl in its hollow tree,To whit, to whit, to woo.IV.That boy now took his victims home,And put them in a cage;And cooped up there,In their despair,They bit and scratched in rage;They caught his fingers once or twice,And made him scream with pain;And then he vowed,In curses loud,That they should all be slain.He tied them to a stake, and gotAn iron pin, and made it hot,To burn out their young eyes.“Ha, ha!” said he, “you’ll not bite me,You’ll not bite me again:”Then in the skyA wing flapped byThat seemed to stop his breath;’Twas the old owl, with a heavy scowl,Lamenting her young ones’ death—To whit, to whit, to woo.V.That boy grew up—became a man,Acruelman was he,His heart had grown as hard as stone,Which none but God could see.One dreary night,In the wan moonlight,Beneath that hollow treeHe vengeful stood, to spill the bloodOf a hated enemy.With a furious blow, he laid him low,Then plunged his knifeTo take his life,Deep to its haft,And wildly laughed,—“You will not again plague me.”But yet as he kneltO’er that foe, he feltA shudder that quailed all his blood’s full glow;For oh, he heard,On the tree that bird,The same old owl, o’er that murder foul,Cry,whit, to whit, to woo.VI.He fled—the owl’s reproaching cryStill ringing in his ears;But ah, ’twas in vain for the wretch to fly,So loaded with guilt and fears.He quick was caught,And to justice brought,And soon in prison lies.And oh, while there,In his deep despair,In lonely tears and sighs,He thought of the iron cage!And he thought of the cruel rage!!And the red-hot pin, that he once thrust in,To burn out the young bird’s eyes.Condemned to die—’twas his destinyTo die on that hollow tree,And there as he hung,And there as he swungIn the night-wind to and fro,That vengeful birdWas often heard,When scarcely a breath the forest stirred,In screamings high,All the night to cry,To whit, to whit, to woo.To whit, to whit, to woo.

I.

Theowl is a bird that flaps along

With a lonely loud halloo;

He has but one unceasing song,

To whit, to whit, to woo.

In dusky light he takes his flight,

The twilight dim is the time for him,

And when the midnight scowls,—

’Tis then he silently prowls,

And hunts the mice and moles.

II.

A lonely owl once built her nest

In the hole of a hollow tree,

And she with a fine young brood was blest

As ever owl could be.

She loved her young, and as they clung

Beneath her downy wing,

She o’er them oft, on a branch aloft,

As they reposed below,

Would shout and sing, while the woods would ring,

To whit, to whit, to woo.

III.

A boy came by that hollow tree,

With a fierce and wild halloo;

And this the birds, all startled heard,

And answered,to whit, to woo.

As the old bird shrieked, the young ones squeaked;

“Oh ho!” said the boy,

In a frantic joy,

“An owl is the bird for me,

And here are its young ones three.”

Then with eager look,

He that bird’s-nest took;

While plaintive and slow,

Rose a note of wo

From the owl in its hollow tree,

To whit, to whit, to woo.

IV.

That boy now took his victims home,

And put them in a cage;

And cooped up there,

In their despair,

They bit and scratched in rage;

They caught his fingers once or twice,

And made him scream with pain;

And then he vowed,

In curses loud,

That they should all be slain.

He tied them to a stake, and got

An iron pin, and made it hot,

To burn out their young eyes.

“Ha, ha!” said he, “you’ll not bite me,

You’ll not bite me again:”

Then in the sky

A wing flapped by

That seemed to stop his breath;

’Twas the old owl, with a heavy scowl,

Lamenting her young ones’ death—

To whit, to whit, to woo.

V.

That boy grew up—became a man,

Acruelman was he,

His heart had grown as hard as stone,

Which none but God could see.

One dreary night,

In the wan moonlight,

Beneath that hollow tree

He vengeful stood, to spill the blood

Of a hated enemy.

With a furious blow, he laid him low,

Then plunged his knife

To take his life,

Deep to its haft,

And wildly laughed,—

“You will not again plague me.”

But yet as he knelt

O’er that foe, he felt

A shudder that quailed all his blood’s full glow;

For oh, he heard,

On the tree that bird,

The same old owl, o’er that murder foul,

Cry,whit, to whit, to woo.

VI.

He fled—the owl’s reproaching cry

Still ringing in his ears;

But ah, ’twas in vain for the wretch to fly,

So loaded with guilt and fears.

He quick was caught,

And to justice brought,

And soon in prison lies.

And oh, while there,

In his deep despair,

In lonely tears and sighs,

He thought of the iron cage!

And he thought of the cruel rage!!

And the red-hot pin, that he once thrust in,

To burn out the young bird’s eyes.

Condemned to die—’twas his destiny

To die on that hollow tree,

And there as he hung,

And there as he swung

In the night-wind to and fro,

That vengeful bird

Was often heard,

When scarcely a breath the forest stirred,

In screamings high,

All the night to cry,

To whit, to whit, to woo.

To whit, to whit, to woo.

A Fisherman’s Widow.—One of the small islands in Boston Bay was inhabited by a single poor family. The father was taken suddenly ill, and there was no physician at hand. The wife, on whom every labor for the household devolved, was unwearied in her care for her suffering husband. Every remedy in her power to procure was administered, but the disease was acute, and he died. Seven young children mourned around the lifeless corpse. They were the sole beings upon that desolate spot. Did the mother indulge the grief of her spirit and sit down in despair? No. She entered upon the arduous and sacred duties of her station. She felt that there was no hand to assist her in burying her dead. Providing as far as possible for the comfort of her little ones, she put her babe into the arms of the oldest, and charged the two next in age to watch the corpse of their father. She unmoored her husband’s fishing-boat, which but two days before he had guided over the seas to obtain food for his family. She dared not yield to those tender recollections, which might have unnerved her arm. The nearest island was at the distance of three miles. Strong winds lashed the waters to foam. Over the rough billows that wearied and sorrowful woman rowed and was preserved. She reached the next island and obtained necessary aid. With such energy did her duty to her desolate babes inspire her, that the voyage which depended upon her individual effort, was performed in a shorter time than the returning one, when the oars were managed by two men who went to assist in the last offices of the dead.

“Moral deformity seems not in the fiend so horrid as in woman.”

“Holy men, at their death, have good inspirations.”

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