1 Men said, but here I know they lied, The owl was of a sullen clan Whose voice upon the lone hillside Forboded ill to mouse and man— A terror noiseless in the flight, A hooknosed hoodlum of the night. 2 But I have found another breed, An owl of fine artistic feelings, A connoisseur of wine & weed Who flutters under frescoed ceilings Nor scorns to bid the passing guest Abide a season in his nest. 3 I saw him on the staircase sit And blandly wink at jibe & joke, An arbiter twixt wit & wit, A god enshrined in baccy smoke While round his pedestal there beat The clamour of his servants' feet. 4 Some toiled in journalistic fetters And some in stocks—and stand up collars— Some worked his will in Art & letters And some their own with things called dollars. Whate'er they ran or wrote or drew The owl was monarch of the crew. 5 With humour bright as Frisco air In speech as dry as Frisco sand, He blithely bade me welcome there And stretched a claw to take my hand Whereat I found acceptance free Among his jovial company. 6 A wanderer from East to West A vagrant under many skies, How shall a roving rhymester best Requite O owl thy courtesies? Accept in lieu of laboured stippling A simple 'Thank you' signed R. Kipling.
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