"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. He hoots all night and makes me so depressed that I
feel that I shall go mad."

"And so you come and listen to the owl in London?" I said.

"The owl in London?" she asked.

"Yes," I said, "the owl that hoots in Carmelite Street and Printing House
Square."

"Ah," she said, "but he is such an absurd owl. Now the owl down in the
country is such a solemn creature."

"He says a very foolish thing
In such a solemn way,"

I murmured.