noise of their flight through the air,—the wild ducks making a noise like that of scythes in wet grass, the heavy beat of the bittern’s wings like muffled drums; and many other fond reminiscences of those early years. Then they exchanged some recollections of the secret, half-remembered ideas of childhood. “Have you ever seen a little bush-owl?” said Alice, in affectionate remembrance. “They are the sweetest little fluffy creatures, but they often attack the young birds in their nests, and eat up the fledgelings. Long ago I used to imagine myself a little bird sitting cosily in my nest in the cypress-tree, when this great brown monster with glaring yellow eyes suddenly pounced upon me and ate me up. Don’t you think that a brown owl must be much more appalling than any of the ogres or giants of our legends? Perhaps these stories have arisen from a shadowy recollection of such a time in some previous state of existence! And once, when my canary got out of its cage and flew off into the woods, I would not cry, for I thought it must feel exactly as if it had gone straight to heaven, without dying, like the old prophet.”
“I don’t know much about birds, but I do know something of what horses and dogs think about. I think the nicest thing that Huxley
