An, as we went along, was telling me more of her strange country,
pointing out birds or flowers and naming them to me. "Now that," she
said, pointing to a small grey owl who sat reflective on a floating log
we were approaching--"that is a bird of omen; cover your face and look
away, for it is not well to watch it."

Whereat I laughed. "Oh!" I answered, "so those ancient follies have come
as far as this, have they? But it is no bird grey or black or white that
can frighten folk where I come from; see, I will ruffle his philosophy
for him," and suiting the action to the words I lifted a pebble that
happened to lie at the bottom of the boat and flung it at that creature
with the melancholy eyes. Away went the owl, dipping his wings into
the water at every stroke, and as he went wailing out a ghostly cry,
which even amongst sunshine and glitter made one's flesh creep.

An shook her head. "You should not have done that," she said; "our
dead whom we send down over the falls come back in the body of yonder
little bird. But he has gone now," she added, with relief; "see, he
settles far up stream upon the point of yonder rotten bough; I would
not disturb him again if I were you--"

Whatever more An would have said was lost, for amidst a sound of flutes
and singing round the bend of the river below came a crowd of boats
decked with flowers and garlands, all clustering round a barge barely
able to move, so thick those lesser skiffs pressed upon it. So close
those wherries hung about that the garlanded rowers who sat at the oars
could scarcely pull, but, here as everywhere, it was the same good temper,
the same carelessness of order, as like a flowery island in the dancing
blue water the motley fleet came up.