Indeed, she must be fed, housed and cared for as an object of charity, for, truly, she lacked lovable characteristics. At first she had but one friend and that, her owner, and to her she owes life and what happiness she has had. For twelve months of her existence, after she arrived, Minerva lived in a large wire-screen chicken pen, situated beneath my room window. It was there that she grew into the dignified old lady that she is. The pen was built and is used for cooping chickens for the table. At times it was well filled with a fine lot of hens and then, again, empty. Minerva watched the daily slaughter of her strange companions with apparent concern from the highest perch she could find. She would not associate with them. However, she soon discovered that they were afraid of her. Those direct from the country, sought the farthest corner from her. All this she did not understand, for having seen none of her peculiar family, she must have felt that she was of the same blood as her fellow creatures. She tried diligently to unravel the mystery. Her thoughts were along the line of these questions, I imagine, from the serious look she always wore upon her face: “Why do they avoid me? Will that dreadful tall creature from the kitchen come and wring my head off like he has done others? What does it all mean? Have I but one friend, the sweet old lady who raises the window every morning and greets me?” The only trouble Minerva had in her early captivity was given by Osmond, the son of her mistress, who set Jack, his fierce bull terrier, after her. The dog could not get inside the enclosure, but would frighten her into hysterics by charging against the wire and barking viciously. Under this excitement she took the only exercise she got, flying from pole to pole and snapping her bill. What the bull dog and his master did for her Minerva did for the timid chickens. She amused herself daily by chasing them around. By instinct an owl captures a fowl by pushing it off of a perch and catching it on the wing. Minerva would drop on the pole by the side of a frightened hen and shove her off, just to see her squirm and hear her squall. She kept this sport up for months. Every time a new chicken was turned in she would haze her, much to the delight of those who could watch the game. But, now, Minerva is too much of a lady to engage in such youthful pranks. She sits on her perch and keeps tab on the sons and daughters of our neighbors. She announces the time of night that Colonel Willie Harty comes in and sings a funeral dirge out of respect for Fritz, the deceased dog of Mr. John Oates. In her more cheerful moods, she warbles after this manner: “Toot, oot, hoot, toot!” “Toot, oot, hoot, toot!!” That is very owlish and I have found no one who could translate it into English.