starer read my counsel
in my eyes, I am wide awake all the same. I am on the look-out when
it's so dark that other folk can't see an inch before their noses, and
(a word to the foolish and naughty!) I can see what is doing behind my
back. And Wiseacre, Observer, and Wide-awake--I am the Children's Owl.

Before I open my mouth on their little affairs, before even I open my
letters (if there are any waiting for me) I will explain how it came
about that I am the Children's Owl.

It is all owing to that little girl; the one with the fluffy hair and
the wise eyes. As an Observer I have noticed that not only I, but
other people, seem to do what she wants, and as a Wiseacre I have
reflected upon it as strange, because her temper is as soft and fluffy
as her hair (which mine is not), and she always seems ready to give
way to others (which is never my case--if I can help it). On the
occasion I am about to speak of, I could _not_ help it.

It was last summer that that Bad Boy caught me, and squeezed me into a
wicker cage. Little did I think I should ever live to be so poked out,
and rummaged, and torn to shreds by such a thing as a boy! I bit him,
but he got me into the cage and put a cloth over it. Then he took me
to his father, who took me to the front door of the house, where he is
coachman and gardener, and asked for Little Miss to come out and see
the new pet Tom had caught for her.

"It's a nasty tempered brute, but she's such a one for taming things,"
said the coachman, whipping off the cloth to show me to the housemaid,
and letting in a glare of light that irritated me to frenzy. 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.

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 color 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 has 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 lunch