m. He was a great favourite of mine, and used to
perch on the top of my easel when I was at work, and watch every
movement I made. I composed an ode to him. If you would like to hear
it----"

"Oh, by all means," promptly answered Oldstone.

"In that case, Jack," said McGuilp, addressing our host, "you will
oblige me by getting my mandoline. I mean that musical instrument that
you will find in the corner of my room upstairs, just by way of
accompaniment."

Jack Hearty left the room, and returned soon with the instrument.

"Ah, now we shall hear some music," said Oldstone rubbing his hands, and
by this time Helen seemed to have forgotten her fears, and her eyes
glistened in anticipation.

Our artist then ran his fingers lightly over the instrument by way of
prelude and began the following ditty.

ODE TO AN OWL.

Grim bird of Pallas old,
For what purpose yet untold
Wert thou cast in such a mould?
Speak, declare!

Though thou utterest not a word
As thou gazest on the herd,
I scarce can deem thee bird,
Such thy air.

There thou stand'st, a ghastly sight,
Sworn enemy of light,
Thou ill-omened bird of night,
'Neath the moon.

The charnel's dusky hue
Is lovelier to thy view
Than the clear cerulean blue
Of the noon.

As my task I daily ply,
Every movement thou dost spy,
From my easel perched on high
Gazing down.

Thou look'st so wondrous wise,
With those round mysterious eyes.
What unearthly glitter lies
In thy frown.

Once with thy friends so gay
Thou did'st turn night into day,
And while seeking for thy prey
Round would'st prowl.

Now from out thy ruined hall
In the Colosseum's wall
They nightly miss thy call,
Oh, my owl!

A captive now, alas!
Thou for aye art doomed to pass
Thy life far from the mass
Of thy race.

Like Stoic thou dost stand,
Exiled from his native land,
With that look so sage and grand
In thy face.

Were Pythagorean lore,
Current now as once before,
In the classic days of yore,
I could swear,

That the spirit of some sage,
From some dark and mythic