too. But Solomon Owl never knew that, for often he was half a mile from
the farm buildings.

A “hoot owl,” Johnnie Green termed him. And anyone who heard Solomon
hooting of an evening, or just before sunrise, would have agreed that it
was a good name for him. But he was really a _barred_ owl, for he had bars
of white across his feathers.

If you had happened to catch Solomon Owl resting among the thick hemlocks
near the foot of Blue Mountain, where he lived, you would have thought
that he looked strangely like a human being. He had no “horns,” or
ear-tufts, such as some of the other owls wore; and his great pale face,
with its black eyes, made him seem very wise and solemn.

In spite of the mild, questioning look upon his face whenever anyone
surprised him in the daytime, Solomon Owl was the noisiest of all the
different families of owls in Pleasant Valley. There were the barn owls,
the long-eared owls, the short-eared owls, the saw-whet owls, the screech
owls—but there! there’s no use of naming them all. There wasn’t one of
them that could equal Solomon Owl’s laughing and hooting and shrieking and
wailing—at night.

During the day, however, Solomon Owl he was quiet about it. One reason for
his silence then was that he generally slept when the sun was shining. And
when most people were sleeping, Solomon Owl was as wide awake as he could
be.

He was a night-prowler—if ever there was one. And he could see a mouse on
the darkest night, even if it stirred ever so slightly.