Cobwebs from an Empty Skull

“Awful dark—­isn’t it?” said an owl, one night, looking in upon the roosting hens in a poultry-house; “don’t see how I am to find my way back to my hollow tree.”

“There is no necessity,” replied the cock; “you can roost there, alongside the door, and go home in the morning.”

“Thanks!” said the owl, chuckling at the fool’s simplicity; and, having plenty of time to indulge his facetious humour, he gravely installed himself upon the perch indicated, and shutting his eyes, counterfeited a profound slumber.  He was aroused soon after by a sharp constriction of the throat.

“I omitted to tell you,” said the cock, “that the seat you happen by the merest chance to occupy is a contested one, and has been fruitful of hens to this vexatious weasel.  I don’t know how often I have been partially widowed by the sneaking villain.”

For obvious reasons there was no audible reply.

This narrative is intended to teach the folly—­the worse than sin!—­of trumping your partner’s ace.