It happened one day that One-eyed John caught an owl in his corn-crib, and he had just nailed the live bird to his house door as a bandit of the worst kind, worthy to be exposed to the jeers of all who passed and to dry up on the spot so as to serve as a scarecrow. John was very proud of his deed; he laughed at the click-clacking of the bird’s beak, at the desperate rolling of the eyes as the owl hung there crucified. Its grimaces and contortions, the convulsive efforts of the wings to free themselves from the big nails that pierced them, and the fits of impotent rage expressed by the spasmodic working of the talons put him in the best of humors. The children of the neighborhood, cruel and heartless as is usual at their age, and still more cruel when grown persons set the sad example, had gathered before the door and were joining in the laugh at the owl’s sufferings. John told them that his neighbor, old Annette, had died two weeks before because the owl came three times in quick succession and hooted on the roof of the house. “Those creatures,” said he, “are bad-luck birds. At night they fly into churches and drink the oil out of the lamps; they perch on the roofs of sick people’s houses and foretell their death; and they snuggle into a hole in the belfry and laugh when the bell tolls for a funeral.” All this of course frightened the children. “See,” said the youngest, pressing close to his brother, “how the owl threatens us with its big red eyes; it must be awfully wicked.” “It’s so ugly,” said another, “let’s hurt it. That will teach it to laugh when people die, and to drink oil out of the holy lamps. John, put its eyes out with this pointed stick, it looks at us so wickedly; and put this piece of glass in its claws so that it will cut its fingers.” And thus each one did what he could to harm the helpless creature; each tried to invent some new torture for it. Just then Louis happened to come along, and the children called to him to join them in tormenting the owl. More merciful than his comrades, especially since he had fallen into the way of visiting Uncle Paul’s house, Louis turned his eyes away from this frightful spectacle and begged John to end the bird’s agony instead of making it suffer still further tortures. But the boy’s entreaties were all in vain, and he went away much distressed. As he was going home he recalled something Uncle Paul had said in one of his talks; he had told the boys that when the ignorant crowd agrees to call a thing black it is always well to see whether after all the thing may not be white.