Chapter 5: The Children of the Owl and the Pussycat

(Author's Note: I dedicate this chapter to all of us that are slightly different.
Or, as Mr. Lear so eloquently put it, are "partly little beasts and partly little fowl.")

The Children of the Owl and the Pussycat

Our mother was the Pussycat, our father was the Owl;
and so we're partly little beasts and partly little fowl.
The brothers of our family have feathers and they hoot.
While all the sisters dress in fur and have long tails to boot.
We all believe that little mice,
for food are singularly nice.
Our mother died long years ago. She was a lovely cat.
Her tail was five feet long and, grey with stripes, but what of that?
In Sila forest on the East of fair Calabria's shore,
she tumbled from a lofty tree — none ever saw her more.
Our owly father long was ill from sorrow and surprise,
but with the feathers of his tail, he wiped his weeping eyes.
And in the hollow of a tree in Sila's inmost maze,
we made a happy home and there we pass our obvious days.

From Reggian Cosenza many owls about us flit
and bring us worldly news for which we do not care a bit.
We watch the sun each morning rise, beyond Tarento's strait;
we go out-- before it gets too late;
and when the evening shades begin to lengthen from the trees,
-- as sure as bees is bees.
We wander up and down the shore --.
Or, tumble over head and heels, but never, never more,
can see the far Gromboolian plains --.
Or, weep as we could once have wept o'er many a vanished scene:
this is the way our father moans -- he is so very green.

Our father still preserves his voice, and when he sees a star,
he often sings-- to that original guitar.
--.
--.
The pot in which our parents took the honey in their boat,
but all the money has been spent, beside the £5 note.
The owls who come and bring us news are often --
because we take no interest in politix of the day.

Edward Lear, 1812-1888 — Unfinished Sequel to "Owl and the Pussycat"
Published Posthumously, 1938

From "The Faber Book of Nonsense Verse" — Edited by Geoffrey Grigson
First published in 1938 in Davidson's "Edward Lear"

Warm, brown eyes enveloped him, held him unmoving within their unblinking gaze and he could see nothing else. He desired to see nothing more. If his life could remain forever in one perfect instant, then he would choose this one. Then the flash of a brilliant smile caught his eye and the moment was no more.

She was falling and the eyes of rich, earthen hue suddenly shuttered by their lids. Without thought, he swiftly moved to catch the falling maiden. He carefully hefted her to cradle her in his arm's embrace. And, he found he could not force his eyes to look away from her. His eyes took in every nuance of her face, the skin was the color of the palest cream, her long hair was a mass of russet ringlets, her face was heart-shaped with dark upswept brows and her lips formed a perfect crimson rosebud. Every part of his body, mind and soul responded to the dark angel in his arms. It was then that the thought struck him.

"I am lost. I am truly lost and hers forever more. This fey creature cannot be human for she weighs the same as a feather."

His thoughts suddenly ripped away from the vision in his arms by a hand clamped to his shoulder and voices shouting anxiously.

"Erik!" Raoul shouted.

"Christine!" Meg screeched.

After the initial calls, the panicked voices blended into a cacophony of sound, of which Erik could only discern a word here and a phrase there.

"Christine!"

"What..."

"This has happened..."

"What do you mean?"

"She forgets to eat..."

"What do we do?"

"My mother..."

"Where..."

"I am not sure..."

"La Sorelli's dressing room..."

"Hurry!"

"Come on, Erik!"

"Erik, let us go!"

"Now, Erik!"

"Please?"

Then Erik felt one large, strong hand grip his upper arm and a small, delicate hand push at the center of his back. Between the two hands, they propelled him down the corridor towards the backstage dressing rooms of the opera house's prima performers. Quickly, they passed the dressing rooms until at last they came to a dimly lit passageway where only a single gas light flickered sullenly on the wall next to an old, battered wooden door. It seemed to Erik that behind this door was the personal quarters of the Ballet Mistress and her daughters. For he could think of no other reason that Raoul and Meg had led him there. His eyes returned to the face of the angel he carried in his arms. Her body was still limp and her mouth hung slightly open. It was only at that moment that he realized her delicate body radiated an unnatural heat and her coloring was ashen. Alarmed, he turned to Meg.

"I believe she is truly ill. This is not a case of the vapors. Has this happened to her before?"

Erik's comment caught Meg just as her hand pushed down on the door latch. She replied without looking at him.

"Yes, Christine often forgets to eat. Sometimes, she may go a day or two without eating. If we do not take note and she becomes agitated in any way, well, this is what happens. However, my mother knows what to do. Please, come with me."

Turning to Raoul, she placed a hand on his chest and shook her head.

"I think it best if you remain here. You must understand. It just would not be proper. Monsieur Destler will join you in a moment, Raoul..."