IN the heart of the wood dwells the little Bell Owl.
Where the cedar lifts, high up, its steeple;
There he lolls all the day, a gray ball, all away
From the wild’s singing, gambolling people.
But when the red torch of the day has burnt down,
And large looms the shadow-like hill;
When the bark of the black fox is heard from the glade,
And the black cat seeks prey by the rill,
Then, tinkle link tinkle, the little Bell Owl
Makes clear the dark quietude thrill.
Oh, the little Bell Owl finds a sometimes retreat
In the tree-bole brown ruin is eating,
Where he dozes, then starts to the rattling tat tat
That the woodpecker’s drumstick is beating.
He shrinks from all light, e’en the woods beaming white
In the delicate snow of the moon;
To the star-eyes alone, for they blink like his own,
Does he deign his sweet musical boon.
Then, tinkle tink tinkle, the little Bell Owl
The sleepy depths wakes with his tune.
Oh, the little Bell Owl loves the darksomest dells
Where the foxfire its silver is shedding;
And the grass flits in fits to the network of gold
From the lightning-fly’s fairy-like threading.
And perchance, should the hunter camp down on the moss,
From his dream of the midnight he springs,
And, though naught meets his sight but his hound bathed in light,
Still the bell in the cedar-top rings;
Still, tinkle tink tinkle, the little Bell Owl
Abroad his full melody flings.