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Tale of Solomon Owl (Version 2)

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<h2>VII The Blazing Eyes</h2> It was some three hours after sunset when Solomon Owl at last reached Farmer Green’s place. All was quiet in the chicken house because the hens and roosters and their families had long since gone to roost. And except for a light that shone through a window, the farmhouse showed not a sign of life. Everything was as Solomon Owl wished it—or so he thought, at least, as he alighted in a tree in the yard to look about him. He wanted no one to interrupt him when he should go nosing around the chicken house, to find an opening. To his annoyance, he had not sat long in the tree when the wood-shed door opened. And Solomon stared in amazement at the strange sight he saw. A great head appeared, with eyes and mouth—yes! and nose, too—all a glaring flame color. Solomon had never seen such a horrible face on man or bird or beast. But he was sure it was a man, for he heard a laugh that was not to be mistaken for either a beast’s or a bird’s. And the worst of it was, those blazing eyes were turned squarely toward Farmer Green’s chicken house! Solomon Owl was too wary to go for his fat pullet just then. He decided that he would wait quietly in the tree for a time, hoping that the man would go away. While Solomon watched him the stranger neither moved nor spoke. And, of course, Solomon Owl was growing hungrier every minute. So at last he felt that he simply must say something. “Who-who-who-are-you?” he called out from his tree. But the strange man did not answer. He did not even turn his head. “He must be some city person,” Solomon Owl said to himself. “He thinks he’s too good to speak to a countryman like me.” Then Solomon sat up and listened. He heard a scratching sound. And soon he saw a plump figure crawl right up into his tree-top. It was Fatty Coon! “What are you doing here?” Solomon Owl asked in a low voice, which was not any too pleasant. “I’m out for an airing,” Fatty answered. “Beautiful night—isn’t it?” But Solomon Owl was not interested in the weather. “I don’t suppose you’ve come down here to get a chicken, have you?” he inquired. Fatty Coon seemed greatly surprised at the question. “Why—no!” he exclaimed. “But now that you speak of it, it reminds me that Farmer Green’s saving a pullet for me. He was heard to say not long ago that he would like to catch me taking one of his hens. So he must have one for me. And I don’t want to disappoint him.” At first Solomon Owl didn’t know what answer to make. But at last he turned his head toward Fatty. “Why don’t you go and get your pullet now?” he asked. “There’s that man down below, with the glaring eyes—” said Fatty Coon. “I’ve been waiting around here for quite a long time and he hasn’t looked away from the chicken house even once.... Do you know him?” “No! And I don’t want to!” said Solomon Owl. “S-sh!” Fatty Coon held up a warning hand. “Who’s that?” he asked, peering down at a dark object at the foot of their tree. Then both he and Solomon saw that it was Tommy Fox, sitting on his haunches and staring at the big head, with its blazing eyes and nose and mouth. “Not looking for chickens, I suppose?” Solomon Owl called in a low tone, which was hardly more than a whisper. But Tommy Fox’s sharp ears heard him easily. And he looked up, licking his chops as if he were very hungry indeed. And all the while the stranger continued to stare straight at the chicken house, as if he did not intend to let anybody go prowling about that long, low building to steal any of Farmer Green’s poultry. It was no wonder that the three chicken-lovers (two in the tree and one beneath it) hesitated. If the queer man had only spoken they might not have been so timid. But he said never a word. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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