from their mother, and I know that I shall let them go again some day--
perhaps the very next time the Man of Wrath goes on a journey.
I put a small pot of water in the cage, though they never could have
tasted water yet unless they drink the raindrops off the beech leaves.
I suppose they get all the liquid they need from the bodies of
the mice and other dainties provided for them by their fond parents.
But the raindrop idea is prettier.

May 15th.--How cruel it was of me to put those poor little
owls into a cage even for one night! I cannot forgive myself,
and shall never pander to the Man of Wrath's wishes again.
This morning I got up early to see how they were getting on,
and I found the door of the cage wide open and no owls to be seen.
I thought of course that somebody had stolen them--
some boy from the village, or perhaps the chastised cowherd.
But looking about I saw one perched high up in the branches of
the beech tree, and then to my dismay one lying dead on the ground.
The third was nowhere to be seen, and is probably safe in its nest.
The parents must have torn at the bars of the cage until by chance
they got the door open, and then dragged the little ones out
and up into the tree. The one that is dead must have been blown
off the branch, as it was a windy night and its neck is broken.
There is one happy life less in the garden to-day through
my fault, and it is such a lovely, warm day--just the sort
of weather for young soft things to enjoy and grow in.
The babies are greatly distressed, and are digging a grave,
and preparing funeral wreaths of dandelions.

Just as I had written that I heard sounds of arrival,
and running out I breathlessly told the Man of Wrath how nearly I had been