e digested, he had a
comfortable way of spitting out the skin and bones all wadded together
in a tidy pellet. An owl is not the only kind of bird, by any means,
that has a habit of spitting out hard stuff that is swallowed with the
food. A crow tucks away many a discarded cud of that sort; and even the
thrush, half an hour or so after a dainty fare of wild cherries, taken
whole, drops from his bill to the ground the pits that have been
squeezed out of the fruit by the digestive mill inside of him.

After his breakfast, which he ate alone in the evening starlight and
moonlight, Solomon passed an enjoyable night; for that world, which to
most of us is lost in darkness and in sleep, is full of lively interest
to an owl. Who, indeed, would not be glad to visit his starlit kingdom,
with eyesight keen enough to see the folded leaves of clover like little
hands in prayer--a kingdom with byways sweet with the scent and mellow
with the beauty of waking primrose? Who would not welcome, for one
wonderful night, the gift of ears that could hear the sounds which to
little Solomon were known and understood, but many of which are lost in
deafness to our dull ears?

Of course, it may be that Solomon never noticed that clovers fold their
leaves by night, or that primroses are open and fragrant after dusk. For
he was an owl, and not a person, and his thoughts were not the thoughts
of man. But for all that they were wise thoughts--wise as the look of
his big round eyes; and many things he knew which are unguessed secrets
to dozy day-folk.

He was a successful hunter, and he had a certain sort of knowledge about
the habits of the creatures he sought. He seldom learned where the day
birds slept, for he did not find motionless things. But he knew well
enough that mice visited the corn-crib, and where their favorite runways
came out into the open. He knew where the cutworms crept out of the
ground and feasted o' nights in the farmer's garden. He knew where the
big brown beetles hummed and buzzed while they munched greedily of
shade-tree leaves. And he knew where little fishes swam near the surface
of the water.

So he hunted on silent wings the bright night long; and though he did
not starve himself, as we can guess from what we know about his
breakfast of rare mouse-steak, still, the tenderest and softest
delicacies he took home to five fine youngsters, who welcomed their
father with open mouths and eager appetite. Though he made his tri