Should the reader be unable to fit up such a residence, he may always purchase young owls at a cheap rate, and can train them after his own fashion. In order to show how much amusement may be given by so despised a bird as the owl, I quote part of a letter written to me. by a friend :

"I saw a curious sight yesterday, which I think quite worth communicating to you. Some folks about us have got a young owl just fledged, and one of the boys had given him for his supper a dead swift, rather high and gamey. While he was enjoying this dainty, a young tabby kitten, æt. about eight weeks, came on the scene, and walking up to the owl, deliberately invited herself to a share in the repast. Mr. Owl did not express any objection, save by expanding his wings over his food, more suo, whereupon pussy crept under the outstretched wing, and went in for her share. It was droll enough to see the two going halves, especially as every now and then the owl got pussy's ear by mistake, and she in like manner began gnawing at his claw.

"But the scene reached its climax by the appearance of five young ducklings hatched on Thursday last" (the date of the letter shows that it was written on Friday, and consequently that the ducklings in question were just eight days old), "who surrounded the group and did what they could to help. The smell of the dead bird attracted, as I suppose, many small flies, which hovered about and settled, now on the owl, now on the cat, and now on the unfortunate swift. They had better have stayed away, however, for the ducklings snapped them up as fast as they alighted, while both the owl and the cat seemed quite to disregard the pokes and pecks which their bodies received from the sturdy bills of the ducklings."

If the reader should keep owls in confinement, where they cannot procure food for themselves, he must remember that they are hungry beings, and give them plenty of food. They will eat almost any kind of meat, but are very fond of mice and small birds, the latter of which they will mostly contrive to swallow entire. There is no doubt that all the British owls feed upon small birds when they can procure them. They have been observed in the act of robbing the nests, in spite of the screams and attacks of the angry parents, and the skulls, feathers, and bones of the murdered birds have been seen in the pellets which all owls disgorge. I have now before me a box full of their pellets, and in almost every specimen there is an entire skull of some small bird.

In common with most raptorial birds, the owls disgorge the indigestible parts of their food, such as the bones, the feathers, and the skin;

and as the owl eats its prey entire, the amount of such substances is remarkable. They are formed into egg-shaped masses, and may be found in plenty in the nest or on the ground near the nest. In some parts of the country, these castings are called "quids." When they are first ejected, they are wet and rather tenacious, but they rapidly become dry, and can then be crumbled down into a soft flock-like substance, which forms the bed on which the eggs repose.

These eggs can easily be recognized by their peculiar shape and texture. In form they are very globular, their shells are very thin, and the surface is rough and chalk-like, as if some one had ground a piece of chalk into coarse powder, mixed it with gum, and painted the egg with the mixture. Any one who is experienced in such matters, knows an owl's egg as soon as he handles it, even though he cannot see the object which he touches.

Their method of eating mice is very curious, and that the owl should derive any gratification from the process seems to be rather remarkable. The owl catches the mouse with its foot, a member that is wonderfully fitted for the purpose, and then shifts the mouse to its beak, in this respect differing from the hawks, which hold the prey with the foot, and only use the beak for the purpose of tearing it to pieces. At the Zoological Gardens the falcons may be seen at feeding-time with the meat in their claws, never taking it in the beak when they move, but hobbling about with a lump of raw meat hanging to one foot, and presenting a very absurd spectacle.

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When the owl has settled itself into a comfortable position, it gives a kind snap and a gulp, and in a moment the head of the mouse is in the owl's throat. Another gulp and a shake of the head and the mouse has disappeared, with the exception of the tail, which hangs on one side of the beak. This part of the process seems to afford the owl the greatest satisfaction, for the bird remains for some time in this attitude, standing perfectly still, but giving the tail an occasional roll in the beak. Suddenly, the head goes back with a jerk, the eyes close, there is a mighty gulp, and the tail has followed the mouse into the bird's stomach. The whole process of swallowing the prey is very much like that which may be observed in the toad, the gulping effort to swallow appearing to be equally great in either case.

All the owls can be treated in a similar manner, so that there is no need of mentioning them individually. If, however, either of the eared owls can be obtained, the young naturalist should not fail to do so. Owls kept in captivity should not be placed in cages, provided that other accommodation can be furnished, but should have a dark recess in which

they can sit during the day, and where they can always be found. They are not easily seen by inexperienced eyes, as they have a habit of choosing perches in spots where their colour harmonises with that of the locality, and I have often seen strangers look in vain for the owls in a small yard where was no cover, and where the birds were sitting, or rather standing, in full view. If, therefore, they are so difficult of detection in full daylight and in an open yard, they must necessarily be marvellously well concealed at night in the woods. I have seen owls fly into trees, and yet be unable, in spite of their large size, to detect them until they took to wing; although in the same tree a linnet or a sparrow would at once have been seen.

When properly treated, the owl can be made quite tame; but unless it be taken when young, it is rather uncertain in temper, biting very sharply. If any one approaches the owl and hears a quick snapping sound, as if an elastic piece of wood were "flicked" against a table, he may take it as a warning that the bird does not approve of him, and that he had better not trust his hands too near the owl.

Any one can see how cat-like are the owls in their general physiognomy, as well as in their nocturnal and mouse-loving habits; and they even carry their feline propensities into peculiarities of diet. No animals are less aquatic than the cat, and no animals are more fond of fish. Even the best bred and most carefully-trained cat finds a difficulty in resisting her appetite when she sees fish on the table, and she can hardly have a greater treat than an occasional sprat, herring, or plaice.

Angler-cats are not uncommon, and I have known several that were accustomed to haunt the water side and catch the fish in shallow water; besides having heard on good authority of others which would even plunge into deep water for their prey. In like manner, the owl is a great fish-lover, and has been seen in the act of dropping into the water, and rising again in the air with a fish in its claws. Now, it is an invariable rule with animals of all kinds, that these little aberrations, if we may so term them, are conducive to health; a very familiar instance is the occasional grass-eating propensities of the dog and cat. The young naturalist will therefore consult the health of his owl pets by giving them a fish now and then, as well as a few large insects, in addition to their ordinary diet.

THE MILLER'S DOG.

A LESSON FOR LITTLE ONES.

BY J. E. CARPENTER.

THERE is nothing that so quickly or so thoroughly evinces a bad disposition as cruelty to animals. "A good man is kind to his beast" so says the proverb, and truly; and whenever you see a boy maltreating a poor dumb animal you may set him down as a bad boy, and be sure if he lives it will be to grow into a cruel man, who will flog and beat, not only his dog, but his child, and will be overbearing to all upon whom he can exercise his brute force with impunity.

There can be no doubt that little dogs, as well as boys, are often very troublesome, and very much in the way; but that is no reason why they should be cuffed and beaten about the house as if they belonged to nobody; besides, the fault does not always rest with themselves, for boys and dogs are, with proper treatment, to be kept in their places.

We are not about to insist that when a wrong is done a judgment will immediately follow, for we know that we can do no wrong that is not recorded against us, and that we shall not be accountable for hereafter; but we will contend that a wrong is seldom done without the evildoer having cause to regret it. This is not fatalism, but a mere train of circumstances arising out of, and naturally following, the wrong itself; sometimes directly, sometimes in a strange and unthought-of manner, as in the following story.

It was a long while ago, at a time when the poorer people were more superstitious than they are now, because they were not so well taught, and had not so many good books at their disposal-a time when people believed in ghosts and witches and fortune-telling, and other exploded fallacies that the circumstances we are about to narrate took place.

It matters not the name of the place (indeed we have forgotten it), but it was somewhere down in Warwickshire, where, David Garrick said, folks had but little wit, since it had all been stolen away from them by the famous poet Shakespeare, who was born in that county. How

ever, there was an old woman in this Warwickshire village who got her living nobody knew how. She was never seen at market or fair, and in the harvest time, when all the old crones in the neighbourhood were leasing (and they scattered more grain for the poor to take in those days), old Mother Tasker was never among the rest. She was still to be seen at her cottage door-a lone cottage, by the way—with her only and constant companion, a very ugly, and apparently savage, old terrier.

The village gossips said that a light was frequently seen burning in the cottage throughout the long winter nights, while the dog kept watch without as if to give notice of any approaching danger; but whether Mother Tasker got her living honestly, or whether, as was afterwards supposed, she was in league with coiners, nobody could tell. Her death, like her life, was a mystery which will never be cleared up. But this has nothing to do with the dog.

It chanced that the nearest habitation to the cottage of the old crone was that of the miller, one Giles Griffin; and a griffin of a fellow he was—a harsh, grinding man, who thought no more of grinding down the poor people than he did of grinding his own corn. Now, as Giles's was the only mill for several miles round, the villagers had no alternative but to take their corn there to be ground; and fat and sleek Giles got rich by taking toll from their leasings, or from that grown by villagers on their little plots of land.

But while his form got oily, his disposition remained as rusty as ever ; the hinges of his tongue seemed to grate and creak every time he spoke. If "The Miller and his Men" had been known in those days, we would have been afraid to go near his sacks for fear a robber should jump out of each of them.

Still this has nothing to do with the dog!

Be patient, my dear young friend, yet a little, and you shall hear all about it.

It happened that Griffin's mill was overrun with rats, and, as he was too stingy to keep a dog, he was in a sad dilemma. So, after cudgelling his brains for some time, he made up his mind, notwithstanding he prided himself on never asking a favour, that he would borrow the old woman's terrier.

Fortunately the dog and his mistress were passing at the moment, and the latter consented to leave the dog while she proceeded on some errand of her own at a short distance.

Now, the dog made short work of the rats, and having cleared the mill he looked imploringly in the face of the miller for some token of approval, if not for some tid-bit by which he could reward him ; for your