When in Charlotte, I make my home at 411 North Tryon street, in a private family. My hostess, Mrs. Barringer, widow of General Rufus Barringer, owns an owl of the Asia Accipitrimus or short-eared species; her name is Minerva and she is a very common bird. Hundreds like her dwell along the wooded streams of Mecklenburg and adjoining counties. None of them are beautiful. The one of which I write has but one redeeming feature. She is grateful to her mistress who, alone, has fondled and petted her. In this she acts well and shows a trait that but few men have.

Where did this strange, quaint and curious creature come from? Why did she become a thing to be domesticated and cared for like the beautiful little canary or the sweet-tongued mocking bird? Is she the apple of any person’s eye, or the pride of any home? To the last question I should say: “No; she is nobody’s darling.”

The owner of Minerva was not looking for her when she came nor did she especially desire to become the possessor of such a charge. A friend sent her as a present from a neighboring town. She had been lifted from her nest, a tiny, awkward, helpless birdie, and dropped into our home suddenly.

What was to be done?

Had she been given her liberty in Charlotte, either by night or by day, a violent death would have been her fate. Hungry cats were ready to crack her delicate bones, and the street urchin, with his never-failing sling shot, or air-rifle, was eager to try his skill on just such a mark.

Truly, the ugly, dirty, drab-colored little bird was far from enthusiastic friend or kindred. None of her kind are within several miles of the town. But if she could have been taken to the woods and set free she would have died from starvation and loneliness, for she was young, innocent and inexperienced.

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.

Mrs. Barringer, being a woman of noble heart, decided, not long ago, to give the bird her freedom. William, the man servant, was instructed to turn her out and see that no enemy harmed her. We all believed that she would be glad to leave the place for good at the first opportunity, for she did not seem to care for or even trust any one but her mistress, to whom she would go when called or notice when spoken to. But we had reckoned wrong. She did not desire to depart from us. Her hours are whiled away in such cozy nooks and corners as she elects to occupy in the back yard. She is growing fat and familiar with mankind and beast.

But, with liberty, protection and free-lunch, Minerva is not permitted to be contented and happy. She has a swarm of unrelenting feathered enemies that make her life a burden. The blue jay, the red-headed peckerwood, the harsh catbird, and the cruel English sparrow are her fiercest foes. They annoyed her no little while confined in the chicken pen, by railing at her through the wire, but now they dare to pluck feathers from her back and puncture her body with sharp bills. The mischievous old jay lands in the morning before the servants come or the occupants of the house begin to stir, delivers an inflammatory speech and urges his hearers to fight for their rights, their homes, their wives and their little ones.

It was my fortune, good or bad, to see one of these crowds assembled, to hear one of the addresses and witness an onslaught, one fine Sunday morning, several weeks ago. I had retired early the night before and slept well. The first call of Mr. Blue Jay waked me. I sat up in bed and looked on through the window blinds. The jay, feigning great indignation, sat in the top of an elm tree, not ten feet from the window. His voice rang out loud and shrill through the light morning air. It was harkened to by all the winged kind for several blocks. The red-headed woodpecker quit his hammering on the steeple of the Lutheran church across the street, and flew in all haste to join in the outcry with his rasping voice. The catbird sailed out from a neighboring fig bush and came tumbling and screaming across the garden. English sparrows poured in by the score from all directions until the tree was alive with their nervous little bodies.

All was consternation and fuss at first, but soon the jay got the floor and made this very bitter and impressive speech: “Fellow creatures: Here we are defied by the vilest bird that left the ark. She lurks about and seeks to do murder to you and to me, to yours and to mine. Our homes, our wives and our children are in danger! What shall we do? Must we stand quietly by and see our loved ones killed and their flesh defiled by this designing old night-assassin? I answer: ‘No!’ Why, she was despised and hated by the people of old. Hear what the Great Book says about her! When Job’s honor was turned into extreme contempt and his prosperity into calamity, he cried: ‘I am a brother to dragons, and a companion to owls.’

“Babylon was threatened: ‘It shall never be inhabited, etc.

“‘But wild beasts of the desert shall lie there, and their houses shall be full of doleful creatures; and owls shall dwell there, and satyrs shall dance there.’

“Yes, we must slay the detested creature. She is an imposition. I command you to rise in your might and drive her out of our paradise!

“The English sparrow will lead the charge.

“All together!

“Charge! Bite! Scratch! Squall! Poise the head!”

Off they went in a body to wage war on old Minerva, who had seen the antics and heard the words of the indignant meddlers from her comfortable seat on a wheelbarrow-handle, just under a thick circle of a grape vine. It is useless to say that she was badly frightened, for she dreaded the sharp beak and the fury of the courageous little sparrow; he was so swift and determined in action that his onslaughts were to be feared. The bombastic jay, the timid catbird and the blatant woodpecker gave her no concern.

The fight was in earnest when William, the servant, hove in sight. Minerva had lost several batches of feathers and her back was sore where the sparrows had billed her. At the flight of her assailants and the appearance of William, she chirped: “Toot, toot, toot!”

This is a brief sketch of Minerva’s life. She is shunned, despised and distrusted by all the Charlotte feathered tribe. She is alone in the world. Her appearance is against her and she has no accomplishments. She can neither sing nor dance. Truly she is “the bird with the hoe.”