have been a gifted bird, of superior parts and knowledge (una de multis,[3]
as Horace said of Miss Danaus), endowed perhaps, from its early days with
the faculty of hooting, or else skilled in the art by having been taught
it by its neighbour, the tawny owl? I beg to remark that though I
unhesitatingly grant the faculty of hooting to this one particular
individual owl, still I flatly refuse to believe that hooting is common to
barn owls in general. Ovid, in his sixth book _Fastortim_, pointedly says
that it screeched in his day:--

"Est illis strigibus nomen: sed nominis hujus
Causa, quod horrendâ stridere nocte Solent."[4]

The barn owl may be heard shrieking here perpetually on the portico, and
in the large sycamore trees near the house. It shrieks equally when the
moon shines and when the night is rough and cloudy; and he who takes an
interest in it may here see the barn owl the night through when there is a
moon; and he may hear it shriek when perching on the trees, or when it is
on wing. He may see it and hear it shriek, within a few yards of him, long
before dark; and again, often after daybreak, before it takes its final
departure to its wonted resting place. I am amply repaid for the pains I
have taken to protect and encourage the barn owl; it pays me a
hundred-fold by the enormous quantity of mice which it destroys throughout
the year. The servants now no longer wish to persecute it. Often, on a
fine summer's evening, with delight I see the villagers loitering under
the sycamore trees longer than they would otherwise do, to have a peep at
the barn owl, as it leaves the ivy-mantled tower: fortunate for it, if, in
lieu of exposing itself to danger, by mixing with the world at large, it
only knew the advantage of passing its nights at home; for here

"No birds that haunt my valley free