Two or three hundred years ago, when people were far less crafty and cunning than they are today, an extraordinary event occurred in a little town. By some mischance, a great horned owl had flown from the neighboring woods into a townsfolk's barn at night. When day broke, it dared not venture forth again for fear of the other birds, which raised a terrible outcry whenever it appeared.
In the morning, a servant went into the barn to fetch straw. He was so mightily alarmed at the sight of the owl sitting in a corner that he ran to his master, announcing that a monster—unlike anything he had ever seen, capable of devouring a man with ease—was in the barn, rolling its eyes.
"I know you," said the master. "You're brave enough to chase a blackbird, but need a stick to approach a dead hen. I must see this monster for myself." He boldly entered the granary, but upon seeing the strange, grim creature, he was no less terrified than the servant. With two bounds, he sprang out, ran to his neighbors, and imploringly begged for assistance against this unknown, dangerous beast, lest it break loose and endanger the whole town.
A great clamour arose. The townsmen armed themselves with spears, hay-forks, scythes, and axes, as if marching against an enemy. The senators appeared, led by the burgomaster. They drew up in the marketplace and marched to surround the barn.
One of the most courageous stepped forth, spear lowered, and entered. He immediately ran out with a shriek, pale as death, unable to speak. Two others ventured in but fared no better.
Finally, a man famous for his warlike deeds stepped forward. "Merely looking won't drive the monster away," he said. "We must be earnest, but I see you've all turned into women, with none daring to encounter the beast." He ordered armour, a sword, and a spear, and armed himself. All praised his courage, though many feared for his life.
The barn doors were opened, revealing the owl perched on a great cross-beam. A ladder was brought. As the hero raised it and prepared to climb, the crowd cried for him to be brave and commended him to St. George, the dragon-slayer.
Just as he reached the top, the owl—perceiving his intent, bewildered by the crowd and shouting—rolled its eyes, ruffled its feathers, flapped its wings, snapped its beak, and cried "Tuwhit, tuwhoo" in a harsh voice.
"Strike home! Strike home!" screamed the crowd.
"Anyone standing where I am," he answered, "would not cry 'strike home'!" He planted his foot one rung higher, then began to tremble, half-fainted, and retreated.
Now, no one dared face the danger. "The monster has poisoned and mortally wounded our strongest man merely by snapping and breathing on him!" they said. "Shall we risk our lives too?" They took counsel on how to prevent the town's destruction.
After much deliberation, the burgomaster found an expedient. "My opinion," he said, "is that we should pay the owner from the common purse for the barn and all its contents—corn, straw, hay—to indemnify him. Then, burn down the whole building with the terrible beast inside. Thus, no one endangers his life. This is no time for niggardliness."
All agreed. They set fire to the barn at all four corners, and the owl was miserably burnt. Let anyone who doubts this go thither and inquire for himself.