THE BOOK OF BETTY BARBER.
But the scratching and scraping and digging went on, and Mrs. Owl could not sleep.
“There is only one of them,” she said, “I wonder which it is. The Major, the little girl, one of the fairies, perhaps. Yes, I almost think I will just hop down. Hullo! they are going away—I mean he is going away, or perhaps it is a she.”
Mrs. Owl flew down from her comfortable corner and peeped out of the tree.
“Well, here’s a pretty mess,” she said, looking at the bark and twigs and moss scattered over the ground, “and nobody in sight, and, dear me, surely never,” and she began scratching about in the moss, and searching inside the tree. “I do believe—well, now, isn’t that a good thing! I really shall have some hope of getting a good sleep at last.”
The Owl flew back to her perch, settled herself comfortably, and murmuring, “Well, who would have thought it! I call that a real blessing!” blinked herself to sleep.
The birds began to twitter, and the sun half opened one eye, the sleepy wood began to waken; but the Owl, tight asleep, heard nothing. A rabbit ran past the tree, and stared at the scraps of moss and bark, a robin picked up some of the loose pieces and carried them off, a large beetle tumbled over one of the twigs and grumbled at the mess.
Still Mrs. Owl slept on peacefully and happily, and dreamt she was having a most delightful supper of teeny tiny mice.
Then through the wood came the sound of footsteps, and Half-term walked slowly up to the tree, threw himself down beneath it, and yawned three great big yawns.
Such big yawns that Mrs. Owl’s dream-supper disappeared, and Mrs. Owl opened one eye.
More footsteps sounded.
Half-term did not even trouble to look up to see who was coming, and when Thirteen-fourteenths threw himself on the ground on the other side of the tree he only yawned again.
Thirteen-fourteenths sighed, such a sigh that Mrs. Owl opened
