Candle and firelight filtered through frosty panes
and glowed, dimly, under dark fathoms of the snow sheet now flying
full of voices. Mrs. Vaughn opened her door a moment to peer out.
A great horned owl flashed across the light beam with a snap and
rustle of wings and a cry "oo-oo-oo," lonely, like that, as if it
were the spirit of darkness and the cold wind. Mrs. Vaughn
started, turning quickly and closing the door.
"Ugh! what a sound," said Polly. "It reminds me of a ghost story."
"Well," said the widow, "that thing belongs to the only family o'
real ghosts in the world."
"What was it?" said a small boy. There were Polly and three
children about the fireplace.
"An air cat," said she, shivering, her back to the fire. "They go
'round at night in a great sheet o' feathers an' rustle it, an' I
declare they do cry lonesome. Got terrible claws, too!"
"Ever hurt folks?" one of the boys inquired.
"No; but they're just like some kinds o' people--ye want to let 'em
alone. Any one that'll shake hands with an owl would be fool
enough to eat fish-hooks. They're not made for friendship--those
owls."
"What are they made for?" another voice inquired.
"Just to kill," said she, patting a boy's head tenderly.
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