Hi Tweets,

In lieu of Friday Funnies, I offer an arcane piece of avian
literature. This is a ten-stanza poem. How many stanzas do you have
to read before you can guess the bird? (The answer and the name of
the poem are at the end.)

When the twilight mingling sweetly
With the night the stars reveal,
Dor and bat and night-hawk featly
From their hiding places steal;
All who would the daylight shun
Now their revels have begun.

Round the haystacks, o?er the meadows,
Stubble fields, and hedgerow sides,
Weird and white ? among the shadows
Silently some creature glides,
Buoyant, calm, and lack of noise;
What the purpose of its poise?

Harbinger of Death and illness,
Fatal Bellman, Bird of Doom,
Coming near sick chamber?s stillness,
Holding converse with the tomb;
Evil omens wreath its name,
Nothing good surrounds its fame.

Superstition blindly ready
With bold ignorance to bind,
Fear?s dread fetters, firm and steady,
Grossly lying, -- here we find?
Guardian more than culprit he,
Zealous in his industry.

Spare! Nor heed the common tattle,
Learn the truth and strive to know
Those who give this night-bird battle
Kill a friend and call him foe.
Game-preserver, farmer, all
Might him Benefactor call.

Far more potent ? working duly ?
Than best trap, or cruel gin,
Nature?s balance, weighing truly
Mice and their marauding kin;
Squeak or rustle in the straw
Met by an unerring claw!

Eye and ear both wonder winning,
Hearing as acute as sight,
Plumage soft as silkworm?s spinning,
Fring?d wings and noiseless flight.
Beak set in a disk-like face,
Character of all the race.

Clad in white, and buff ? grey-blended, --
Wise of visage; is it true
Greek Minerva condescended
Oft? to have this bird in view?
Now, forgetful of his use,
Persecute we the recluse.

In the ivied ruin hoary,
Hollow trunk, or steeple grey,
There he sits in solemn glory
Dozing through the livelong day,
But as darkness draweth near
This grand mouser has no peer.

Thus, while the world is sleeping,
(How short-sighted oft? is man) ?
Active watch our friend is keeping,
Doing work no other can,
Costing naught: his recompense
Murder! Is it common sense?

This poem, entitled "The Barn Owl, a Plea for its Protection," was
written by George Bentley Corbin and published in Great Britain
around the turn of the 20th century. I read it in a book entitled
"The Barn Owl," by Mike Read and Jake Allsop (c. 1994). Great
literature, it ain't. But it was delightful to read a literary plea
to conserve this beautiful owl, written a century ago.

Good weekend and good birding,

Carol Riddell
Edmonds
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