"Who stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop,
The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;
The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
The "Daily," the "Herald," the "Post," little heeding
The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;
And the barber kept on shaving.
"Don't you see, Mr. Brown,"
Cried the youth, with a frown,
"How wrong the whole thing is,
How preposterous each wing is,
How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is --
In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is!
I make no apology;
I've learned owl-eology.
I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,
And cannot be blinded to any deflections
Arising from unskilful fingers that fail
To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.
Mister Brown! Mr. Brown!
Do take that bird down,
Or you'll soon be the laughingstock all over town!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
"I've studied owls,
And other night-fowls,
And I tell you
What I know to be true;
An owl cannot roost
With his limbs so unloosed;
No owl in this world
Ever had his claws curled,
Ever had his legs slanted,
Ever had his bill canted,
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude.
He cant do it, because
'Tis against all bird-laws.
Anatomy teaches,
Ornithology preaches,
An owl has a toe
That can't turn out so!
I've made the white owl my study for years,
And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!
Mr. Brown, I'm amazed
You should be so gone crazed
As to put up a bird
In that posture absurd!
To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;
The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"
And the barber kept shaving.
"Examine those eyes
I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass;
So unnatural they seem
They'd make Audubon scream,
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.
Do take that bird down;
Have him stuffed again, Brown!"
And the barber kept on shaving!
"With some sawdust and bark
I could stuff in the dark
An owl better than that.
I could make an old hat
Look more like an owl
Than that horrid fowl,
Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.
In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."
Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
Walked around, and regarded his fault-finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:
"Your learning's at fault this time, anyway:
Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.
I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good day!"
And the barber kept on shaving.
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Comments
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He studied 'owl-eology' - not very well it appears. How funny - an owl with a sense of humour and a barber with the ability not to burst out laughing. Great work.
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I cannot remember where I first came across this poem or when but I do know it has been part of my mental baggage for years.
The writer paints such a vivid picture that I can clearly see the scene and imagine the pontificating customer/critic regailing the other customers with his views and then crumbling into silence as the owl moves.
That final line
And the barber kept on shaving
is so great since that's exactly what would happen. How could he upset a paying customer, even such an idiot, by bursting out laughing as he probably wished.
Great story. Great Poem. -
Thanks for posting
I first read this poem in a Jr. High Language Arts class about 35 years ago. Thanks for posting.
I awoke earlier this week and found a bald eagle in a tree about 100 feet outside my window. In my excitement, I managed to find a camera, and got several shots before he decided to move on. None of the pictures were great shots, but they were something to capture the moment.
I shared these photos with some of my colleagues. Some thought it was neat, but a few others began pointing out things in the picture they thought proved that it was not a picture of a real eagle. As they criticized, I thought of this poem, and searched to see if I could find it. Imagine finding it posted on one of my favorite sites! -
Memories
From guest Harriet Greenhut (contact)
I first learned this poem at age 6, 78 years ago. I fell in love with it at that time, and I find now that my original impression of it remains unchanged in spite of the passage of time. It is just as wonderful now as it was then.
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