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Fisher's River
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XVII.---GLASSEL AND THE OWL. A Scotchman, named Glassel, came on a bee-line from the "old country," and halted not till he arrived at the foot of the Blue Ridge Mountains in Virginia. He rested a few days, took his gun, and went into the deep gorges of the mountain hunting. While he was in one of those deep gorges, the habitation of owls, the old king owl of the gorge "let off" in trumpet tones. Glassel had never heard the like, nor had he seen the like, when he looked up into a tree and saw that large head, those big bright eyes, and that grave, intelligent countenance. His excited imagination supplied the rest. "That," thought he, "is some enchanted or metamorphosed human being --- no ordinary one at that --- the work of some wicked spirit." His fruitful imagination gave it an intelligent speech, and made it speak to him in this inquisitive amnner: Owl. Hoo-hoo-hoo-who are you? Glassel. My name is Glassel, sir, at your service. Owl. Hoo-hoo-hoo-who are you? Glassel. I say, sir my name is Glassel; and, if I might be so bold, what is your name? Owl. Hoo-hoo-hoo-who are you? Glassel. I say, sir, my name is Glassel, and if you'll let me alone I will you. And Glassel left.
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