all the animals had now told a story except too-too, the owl, and the pushmi-pullyu. and the following night, a friday, it was agreed that they should toss a coin (the doctor's penny that had a hole through it) to see which of these two should tell a tale. if the penny came down heads it was to be the pushmi-pullyu, and if it came down tails it was to be too-too's turn.
the doctor span the penny and it came down tails.
"all right," said too-too. "then that makes it my turn, i suppose. i will tell you a story of the time—the only time in my life—that i was taken for a fairy. fancy me as a fairy!" chuckled the little round owl. "well, this is how it happened: one october day, toward evening, i was wandering through the woods. there was a wintry tang in the air and the small, furred animals were busy among the dry, rustly leaves, gathering nuts and seeds for food against the coming of snow. i was out after shrew mice, myself—a delicacy i was extremely fond of at that time—and while they were busy foraging they made easy hunting.
"in my travels through the woods i heard children's voices and the barking of a dog. usually i would have gone further into the forest, away from such sounds. but in my young days i was a curious bird and my curiosity often led me into many adventures. so instead of flying away, i went toward the noises i heard, moving cautiously from tree to tree, so that i could see without being seen.
"presently i came upon a children's picnic—several boys and girls having supper in a grove of oak trees. one boy, much larger than the rest, was teasing a dog. and two other children, a small girl and a small boy, were objecting to his cruelty and begging him to stop. the bully wouldn't stop. and soon the small boy and girl set upon him with their fists and feet and gave him quite a fine drubbing—which greatly surprised him. the dog then ran off home and presently the small boy and girl—i found out afterwards they were brother and sister—wandered off from the rest of the picnicking party to look for mushrooms.
"i had admired their spirit greatly in punishing a boy so much bigger than they were. and when they wandered off by themselves, again out of curiosity, i followed them. well, they traveled quite a distance for such small folk. and presently the sun set and darkness began to creep over the woods.
"then the children thought to join their friends again and started back. but, being poor woodsmen, they took the wrong direction. it grew darker still, of course, as time went on, and soon the youngsters were tumbling and stumbling over roots they could not see and getting pretty thoroughly lost and tired.
"all this time i was following them secretly and noiselessly overhead. at last the children sat down and the little girl said:
"'willie, we're lost! whatever shall we do? night is coming on and i'm so afraid of the dark.'
"'so am i,' said the boy. 'ever since aunt emily told us that spooky story of the "bogey in the cup-board" i've been scared to death of the dark.'
"well, you could have knocked me down with a feather. of course, you must realize that was the first time i had ever heard of any one's being afraid of the dark. it sounds ridiculous enough to all of you, i suppose, but to me, who had always preferred the cool, calm darkness to the glaring, vulgar daylight, it seemed then an almost unbelievable thing that anyone could be afraid merely because the sun had gone to bed.
"now, some people have an idea that bats and owls can see in the dark because we have some peculiar kind of eyes. it's not so. peculiar ears we have—but not eyes. we can see in the dark because we practise it. it's all a matter of practice—the same as the piano or anything else. we get up when other people go to bed, and go to bed when other people get up, because we prefer the dark; and you'd be surprised how much nicer it is when you get used to it. of course, we owls are specially trained by our mothers and fathers to see on very dark nights when we are quite young. so it comes easier to us. but anybody can do it—to a certain extent—if they only practise.
"well, to return to the children: there they were, all fussed and worried and scared, sitting on the ground, weeping and wondering what they could do. then, remembering the dog and knowing they were kind to animals, i thought i would try to help them. so i popped across into the tree over their heads and said in the kindliest, gentlest sort of a voice 'too-wit, too-hoo!'—which means in owl language—as you know—'it's a fine night! how are you?'
"then you should have seen those poor children jump!
"'ugh!' says the little girl, clutching her brother around the neck. 'what was that, a spook?'
"'i don't know,' says the little boy. 'gosh, but i'm scared! isn't the dark awful?'
"then i made two or three more attempts to comfort them, talking kindly to them in owl language. but they only grew scareder and scareder. first, they thought i was a bogey; then an ogre; then a giant of the forest—me, whom they could put in their pockets! golly, but these human creatures do bring up their children in awful ignorance! if there ever was a bogey or a giant or an ogre—in the forest or out of it—i've yet to see one.
"then i thought maybe if i went off through the woods too-witting and too-hooing all the way, they would follow me and i could then lead them out of the forest and show them the way home. so i tried it. but they didn't follow me, the stupid little beggars—thinking i was a witch or some evil nonsense of that kind. and all i got for my too-witting and too-hooing all over the place was to wake up another owl some distance off, who thought i was calling to him.
"so, since i wasn't doing the children any good, i went off to look up this other owl and see if he had any ideas to suggest. i found him sitting on the stump of a hollow birch, rubbing his eyes, having just got out of bed.
"'good evening,' says i. 'it's a fine night!'
"'it is,' says he, 'only it's not dark enough. what were you making all that racket over there for just now? waking a fellow out of his sleep before it's got properly dark!'
"'i'm sorry,' i said, 'but there's a couple of children over in the hollow there who've got lost. the little silly duffers are sitting on the ground, bawling because the daylight's gone and they don't know what to do.'
"'my gracious!' says he. 'what a quaint notion. why don't you lead them out of the woods? they probably live over in one of those farms near the crossroads.'
"'i've tried,' i said. 'but they're so scared they won't follow me. they don't like my voice or something. they take me for a wicked ogre, and all that sort of rot.'
"'well,' says he, 'then you'll have to give an imitation of some other kind of creature—one they're not scared of. are you any good at imitations? can you bark like a dog?'
"'no,' i said. 'but i can make a noise like a cat. i learned that from an american catbird that lived in a cage in the stable where i spent last summer.'
"'fine,' says he. 'try that and see what happens!'
"so i went back to the children and found them weeping harder than ever. then, keeping myself well hidden down near the ground among the bushes, i went 'meow! me-o-w!' real catlike.
"'oh, willie,' says the little girl to her brother, 'we're saved!' ('saved,' mark you, when neither of the boobies was in the slightest danger!) 'we're saved!' says she. 'there's tuffie, our cat, come for us. she'll show us the way home. cats can always find their way home, can't they, willie? let's follow her!'"
for a moment too-too's plump sides shook with silent laughter as he recalled the scene he was describing.
"then," said he, "i went a little further off, still taking great care that i shouldn't be seen, and i meowed again.
"'there she is!' said the little girl. 'she's calling to us. come along, willie.'
"well, in that way, keeping ahead of them and calling like a cat, i finally led the children right out of the woods. they did a good deal of stumbling and the girl's long hair often got caught in the bushes. but i always waited for them if they were lagging behind. at last, when we gained the open fields, we saw three houses on the sky line, and the middle one was all lighted up and people with lanterns were running around it, hunting in all directions.
"when i had brought the children right up to this house their mother and father made a tremendous fuss, weeping over them, as though they had been saved from some terrible danger. in my opinion grown-up humans are even more stupid than the young ones. you'd think, from the way that mother and father carried on, that those children had been wrecked on a desert island or something, instead of spending a couple of hours in the pleasant woods.
"'how ever did you find your way, willie?' asked the mother, wiping away her tears and smiling all over.
"'tuffie brought us home,' says the little girl. 'she came out after us and led us here by going ahead of us and meowing.'
"'tuffie!' says the mother, puzzled. 'why, the cat's asleep in the parlor in front of the fire—been there all evening.'
"'well, it was some cat,' says the boy. 'he must be right around here somewhere, because he led us almost up to the door.'
"then the father swings his lantern around, looking for a cat; and before i had time to hop away he throws the light full on me, sitting on a sage bush.
"'why, it's an owl!' cries the little girl.
"'meow!' says i—just to show off. 'too-wit, too-hoo! meow! meow!' and with a farewell flip of the wing i disappeared into the night over the barn roof. but as i left i heard the little girl saying in tremendous excitement:
"'oh, mother, a fairy! it was a fairy that brought us home. it must have been—disguised as an owl! at last! at last i've seen a fairy!'
"well, that's the first and last time i ever expect to be taken for a fairy. but i got to know those children quite well. they were a real nice couple of kiddies—even if the little girl did keep on insisting that i was a fairy in disguise. i used to hang around their barn, nights, looking for mice and rats. but if those youngsters ever caught sight of me they'd follow me everywhere. after bringing them safely home that evening i could have led them across the sahara desert and they'd follow—certain in their minds that i was the best of all good fairies and would keep them out of harm. they used to bring me mutton chops and shrimps and all the best tit-bits from their parents' table. and i lived like a fighting cock—got so fat and lazy i couldn't have caught a mouse on crutches.
"they were never afraid of the dark again. because, you see—as i said to the doctor one day, when we were talking over the multiplication tables and other philosophy—fear is usually ignorance. once you know a thing, you're no longer afraid of it. and those youngsters got to know the dark—and then they saw, of course, that it was just as harmless as the day.
"i used to take them out into the woods at night and across the hills and they got to love it—liked the adventure, you know. and thinking it would be a good thing if some humans, anyway, had sense enough to travel without sunlight, i taught them how to see in the dark. they soon got on to it, when they saw how i always shaded my eyes in the light of a lantern, so as not to get the habit of strong light. well, those young ones became real expert—not so good as an owl or a bat, of course, but quite good at seeing in the dark for anyone who had not been brought up that way.
"it came in handy for them, too. that part of the country got flooded one springtime in the middle of the night and there wasn't a dry match or a light to be had anywhere. then those children, who had traveled all that country scores of times in the dark with me, saved a great many lives. they acted as guides, you understand, and took the people to safety, because they knew how to use their eyes, and the others didn't."
too-too yawned and blinked up sleepily at the lantern hanging above his head.
"seeing in the dark," he ended, "is all a matter of practice—same as the piano or anything else."
