un 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."

[Illustration]

To hear that Bad Boy called kind was too much for endurance, and I let
them see how savage I felt. If the wicker work had not been very strong
the cage would not have held me.

"He's a Tartar," said the coachman.

"Oh no, Williams!" said Little Miss, "he's only frightened by the light.
Give me the cloth, please."

"Take care, Miss. He'll bite you," cried the coachman, as she put the
cloth over the cage, and then over her own head.

"No he won't! I don't mind his snapping and hissing. I want him to see
me, and know me. Then perhaps he'll get to like me, and be tame, and sit
on the nursery clock and look wise. Captain Barton's owl used to sit on
his clock. Poor fellow! Dear old owlie! Don't growl, my owl. Can you
hoot, darling? I should like to hear you hoot."

Sometimes as I sit in my Ivy Bush, and the moon shines on the spiders'
webs and reminds me of the threads of her hair, on a mild, sleepy night,
if there's nothing stirring but the ivy boughs; sitting, I say, blinking
between a dream and a doze, I fancy I see her face close to mine, as it
was that day with the wicker work between. Our eyes looking at each
other, and our fluffiness mixed up by the wind. Then I try to remember
all the kind things she said to me to coax me to leave my ivy bush, and
go to live on the nursery clock. But I can't remember half. I was in
such a rage at the time, and when you are in a rage you miss a good
deal, and forget a good deal.

I know that at last she left off talking to me, and I could see her wise
eyes swimming in tears. Then she left me alone under the