He knew what was
the matter and, quietly stretching himself out, he lay still that the
spell might pass.
The lonesome owl, probably the same one that he had heard earlier,
began to hoot, and now it was near by. Harry thought he could make out
its dim figure on a branch and he was sure that the red eyes, closed by
day, were watching him, doubtless with a certain contempt at his weakness.
"Old man, if you had been chased by the fowler as often as I have,"
were the words behind his teeth, addressed to the dim and fluffy figure,
"you wouldn't be sitting up there so calm and cocky. Your tired head
would sink down between your legs, your feathers would be wet with
perspiration and you'd be so tired you'd hardly be able to hang on to
the tree."
Came again the lonesome hoot of the owl, spreading like a sinister omen
through the forest. It made Harry angry, and, raising himself up a
little, he shook his fist again at the figure on the branch, now growing
clearer in outline.
"'Bird or devil?'" he quoted.
The owl hooted once more, the strange ominous cry carrying far in the
silence of the night.
"Devil it is," said Harry, "and quoth your evil majesty 'never more.'
I won't be scared by a big owl playing the part of the raven.
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