The other voice comes when night has descended and the valley below is
blotted out by the darkness. Then from the copse beyond the orchard there
sounds the mournful threnody of the owl. The day is over, he says, and all
is lost. "Tu-whit, tu-whoo." I only am left to tell the end of all things.
"Tu-whit, tu-whoo." I've told it all before a thousand times, but you
wouldn't believe me. "Tu-whit, tu-whoo." Now, you can't deny it, for the
night is dark and the wind is cold and all the earth is a graveyard.
"Tu-whit, tu-whoo." Where are the songs of spring and the leaves of summer?
"Tu-whit, tu-whoo." Where the red-cheeked apple that hung on the bough and
the butterfly that fluttered in the sunshine? All, all are gone. "Tu-whit,
tu-whoo ... Tu-whit, tu-whoo ... Tu-whit, tu-whoo...."
A cheerless fellow. Some people find him an intolerable companion. I was
talking at dinner in London a few nights ago to a woman who has a house in
Sussex, and I found that she had not been there for some time.
"I used to find the owl endurable," said she, "but since the war I have
found him unbearable.
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