'Twas a stormy day in December, 18~7. Snow and sleet had been falling all day. Out of doors .was all discomfort, making the glowing fire and cheerful sur­roundings in my cozy sitting room doubly comforting. Twilight was settling down and Emily and I thanked kind fate that our lot was cast in pleasant places—that duty had not made it necessary for us to brave the inclemences—that while many might be suffering, some might even be per­ishing, wretched on the treacherous coast, frozen in the rigging or drowned in the surf, which we could hear (though miles away) pounding with a deep roar on the shores of the island.

"Charley, would it not be well to close the outer blinds," Emily suggested. "Twill keep the wind away and make it seem more snug on such a night as this." I acquiesced gladly for the night promised to be a rough one. The window panes were covered with half frozen sleet. The evergreen boughs, loaded with ice and snow, swayed heavily in the wind, clothed in weird beauty, as they brushed against the house, sighing and moaning the while. I put on more coal, buttoned my wrapper and closed the blinds, shutting out th-j despairing gloom, coining to the last one, on the north window of the dining room. I flung up the sash in a hurry and leaned out to reach the blind, when, lo! two bright spots among the branches attracted my attention. Looking more intently, I made out the form of a bird, a Red Owl — perched on a near-by branch.

"Poor Bird" said I, "out in the cold, wild storm. I would give thee better shelter if thou wouldst come to me," and I put out my hand, friendly like, which the bird perceived. To my astonishment, he spoke to me while I listened in wonder.

"Pak- face, thou wouldst be kind to me?"

I said, "Try me but once, come inside for the night and on the morrow go thy way rejoicing,"

"Can I trust thee?"

"Implicitly," I replied. "I am a Son of Liberty, and rejoice in the equal free­dom for others, each according to his kind, free and fair, and this includes birds of the air."

This seemed to remove all distrust. Said he:

"I will partake of the shelter of the white man's wigwam, for I know full well that thou speakest from thy heart."

So, with a preliminary flutter of his wings to dislodge the snow, he flew to mv hand, and I brought him to my sitting room where my wife stroked his head to ailmirj his plumage.

In good truth, he was a winsome bird of a dull red color, and with eyes large and beaming.

"Art thou not an hungered?" I asked when, after a little, his feathers had

become dry.

"Perishing," he admitted, "Tis near two hundred winters since I tasted food".

"You must be hungry, indeed," I observed, and immediately brought a hand­ful of corn.

He said: "I used to take mine roasted," which I thought to be a trifle queer, but prepared some with great alacrity.

"Salt?" inquired he, and then added when I appeared surprised: "Have pa­tience, pale face, I will explain all to you later".

Content in seeing him enjoy his food, I leaned back in my chair and not wish­ing to stare him in the face, I closed my eyes, when lo! I must have slumbered -—dropped off in forty winks.

My wife had returned to her virtuous couch, 'Twas midnight, and the wind a-howling like sixty.

"Time I was in bed for there'll be snow to shovel in the morning," said I, half to myself.

"Hold! 1 would speak to thee!"

Looking over my shoulder, I saw the Red Owl perched on the back of my chair.

"I will stay and hear thee for thou art the bird of wisdom." "Bird!" quotes he, "Never a bird, but a wandering spirit. Woe is me!" "Sayest thou truly? — a ghost? — who and what art thou? Some mortal "who, for crimes, makes penance by wandering up and down? Some soul condemned? or a goblin damned?"

"Xot so", said the bird. "Listen! Three thousand moons ago I was like thee in the flesh — a li-ing man, Chief of my tribe — Oriwos, by name, the terror of the Quinnebough. You ha\e my battle ax on your mantle tree. Many times and oft has k cleaied the skull of the stalking Shenyog. This it was which brought me here".

"on, Noble Red Man, son of the primeval forest", exclaimed I. "Thy tale touches my heart".

Quoth the bird: "I ruled this Island when the white man landed, and Him I did befriend, till slain in mortal combat when my braves fied hard pressed be­fore the victorious Mohawks, who were as the leaves of the forest. I fell in yonder ravine, the last of my race, and there my bones remain unburied to this da , bleaching in the summer sun and mouldering in the winter storms". It paused.

"Were you," I asked, "struck dead entirely at one fell swing? Wast thou pierced by a poisoned arrow or did thee have thy head cloven by an Indian turnihjwk? Tell me, wast thou scalped and thy warlocks stolen — a trophy to adorn thy enemy's hunting shirt?"

Quote he, the bird: "Therein lies the deep damnation of my off-taking. I was slaughtered like any dog, pale face. I would have done the same by him, had I the \ictor been. But woe is me — there my bonts unburied lie and, until  they aiv in the bosom of the earth entombvd, so long must I wander an uneasy spirit". "On I do ought to comfort the;?'   I asked, after a decent pause. The bird replied, "Much cjnst thou do, if thou wilt.' Go thee on the morrow, with  pick and  shovel, and  bury  my  bones,  hide-  my mortal  remains  from  the light of the sun for, hast it not been spoken, "Dust to dur-t, ashes to ashes, and thy bones to Mother Earth mu.st return from whence they come?" I promised when, lo! the bird vanished, and I sought my couch. On  the morrow,  I  went  as  directed   and   reverently gathered  the  remaining fragment! and gave them decent sepulcher, bestrewing the grave with  needles of the pine to make all decent there, I left them, waiting until the last warrior shall wake the ashes — till  the last trumpet shall  sound.

Satisfied with having done my duty, the incident was passing from my mind when on the evening of the third day, he came again in the glimmer of the gloaming.

Quoth he: "Thou hast done well and from henceforth I will be thy friend, will shield thee from adversity and make thee respected of men. I will be thy Suardian angel and providence. Hang thee my picture on the wall that thou niuyst cherish my memory. I bestow my name on thy wigwam. It shall be known forever — for all time — as — "The Hermitage of The Red Owl!"

The spirit vanished, and since that hour all has been well with me.

— charles A. codman

 -Local History Room Newsletter, January 2008