But he soon felt so much better that he was ready to start on again. And
then, to his dismay, Solomon Owl found that he could hardly stir. The
moment he left his perch he floundered down upon the ground. And though he
tried his hardest, he couldn’t reach the tree again.

The rain was still beating down steadily. And Solomon began to think it a
bad night to be out. What was worse, the weather was fast turning cold.

“I’m afraid I’ll have to stay in bed a week after this,” he groaned. “If I
sit here long, as wet as I am, while the thaw turns into a _freeze_, I
shall certainly be ill.”

Now, if it hadn’t been for the rain, Solomon Owl would have had no trouble
at all. Or if it hadn’t been for the freezing cold he would have been in
no difficulty. Though he didn’t know it, his trouble was simply this: The
rain froze upon him as

fast as it fell, covering him with a coating of ice. It was no wonder that
he felt strangely heavy—no wonder that he couldn’t fly.

There he crouched on the ground, while the rain and sleet beat upon him.
And the only comforting thought that entered his head was that on so
stormy a night Tommy Fox and Fatty Coon would be snug and warm in their
beds. _They_ wouldn’t go out in such weather.

And Solomon Owl wished that he, too, had stayed at home that night.

From midnight until almost dawn Solomon Owl sat there. Now and then he
tried to fly. But it was no use. He could scarcely raise himself off the
ground.