Once, when I was in England, I visited some friends, who lived in a pleasant part of the country. They had a fine old house, filled with all sorts of beautiful things; but nothing in-doors was so delightful as the wide, green lawn, with its smooth, soft turf, and the garden, with its laburnums, and lilies, and violets, and hosts on hosts of roses. There was a pretty silvery fountain playing among the flowers, so close to a little bower of honey-suckles that the butterflies fluttering about[8] them had to be very careful, or the first they knew, they got their wings soaked through and through with spray. [8] About the house and grounds were all kinds of beautiful pets—greyhounds, and spaniels, and lap-dogs, and rare white kittens; gay parrots, and silver pheasants, and sweet-singing canaries; but here, in this pleasantest spot, right under the honeysuckle-bower, all alone by himself, in a large green cage, sat an ugly gray owl. He was the crossest, surliest old fellow I ever saw in all my life. I tried very hard to make friends with him—but it was of no use; he never treated me with decent civility; and one day, when I was offering him a bit of cake, he caught my finger and bit it till it bled; and I said to Mrs. M——, "What do you keep that cross old creature for?" I noticed that my friend looked sad, when she answered me and said— [9] [9] "We only keep him for our dear little Minnie's sake—he was her pet." Now I had never heard of her little Minnie—so I asked about her, and was told this story:— Minnie was a sweet, gentle little girl, who loved everybody, and every creature that God had made—and everybody and every creature she met loved her. Rough people were gentle to her, and cross people were kindly; she could go straight up to vicious horses, and fierce dogs, and spiteful cats, and they would become quiet and mild directly. I don't think that anything could resist her loving ways, unless it were a mad bull or a setting-hen. One night, as Minnie lay awake in her bed, in the nursery, listening to
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