Originally published in the Manchester Guardian on 16 September 1916The wood is alive now in the evening,while the moon is still almost at its best. As night comes on and the west yellows among the clouds, brown owls begin to call. Everything else is very still; the cattle scramble noiselessly in the meadow yonder, or the sheep lie together under the green oaks. Then a breeze comes,the boughs rustle, moving clouds obscure the light, and the owls start their call. One begins with “Hoo-hoo,” repeated several times, not a loud noise and yet wonderfully penetrating. Then another in the distance, or yet another,answer; they set the barn-owl screeching, in a shrill cry, and across by the farm. The clouds pass,the moon shines out, the trees strike all sorts of shadows. The wood is tranquil until another cloud and more wind near.
It is curious how the brown owls seem responsive to this waywardness of harvest evenings. On some still nights you may pass a long time in the wood and catch no sound at all. But nearly always, and down by the hedge,the barn owl flits along, dropping now and then into the wide ditch, or like a white stone tossed from above. He is so tranquil in his flight that you would contemplate there is no motion of his wings.
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Source: theguardian.com