nd Jay started off in quest of other
adventures. The winter air put a keen edge on his appetite, which was
probably the reason why he began to hunt for some of the cupboards where
food was stored. Of course, he had tucked a goodly supply of acorns and
such things away for himself; but he slipped into one hollow in a tree
that was well stocked with frozen fish, which he had certainly had no
hand in catching. But what did it matter to the blue-jacketed robber if
that fish had meant a three-night fishing at an air-hole in the ice? He
didn't care (and probably didn't know) who caught it. It tasted good on
a frosty day, so he feasted on fish in Solomon's pantry, while the
little owl slept.

Well, if Jay, the bold dashing fellow, held noisy revel during the
dazzling winter days, night came every once in so often; and then a
quavering call, tremulous yet unafraid, told the listening world that an
elf of the moonlight was claiming his own. And if some shivered at the
sound, others there were who welcomed it as a challenge to enter the
realm of a winter's night.

For, summer or winter, the night holds much of mystery, close to the
heart of which lives a little downy owl, who wings his way silent as a
shadow, whither he will. And when he calls, people who love the stars
and the wonders they shine down upon sometimes go out to the woods and
talk with him, for the words he speaks are not hard even for a human
voice to say. There was once a boy, so a great poet tells us, who stood
many a time at evening beneath the trees or by the glimmering lake, and
called the owls that they might answer him. While he listened, who knows
what the bird of wisdom told him about the night?

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 3: _Hexapod Stories_, page 89.]

XII

BOB THE VAGABOND

Bob had on his traveling suit, for a vagabond must go a-journeying. It
would never do to stay too long in one place, and here it was August
already. Why, he had been in Maine two months and more, and it is small
wonder he was getting restless. Restless, though not unhappy! Bob was
never that; for the joy of the open way was always before him, and
whenever the impulse came, he could set sail and be off.

The meadows of Maine had been his choice for his honeymoon, and a glad
time of it he and May had had with their snug little home of woven
grass. That home was like an anchor to them both, and held their hearts
fast during the days it had taken to make five grown-sized bi