His song, which is rich enough to fill by itself the still night air, is of a nerve-shattering monotony.

With imperturbable and measured regularity, for hours on end, "kew, kew," the bird spits out its cantata to the moon.
One of them has arrived at this moment, driven from the plane-trees in the square by the din of the rejoicings, to demand my hospitality.

I can hear him in the top of a cypress near by.

From up there, dominating the lyrical assembly, at regular intervals he cuts into the vague orchestration of the Grasshoppers and the Toads.
His soft note is contrasted, intermittently, with a sort of Cat's mew, coming from another spot.

This is the call of the Common Owl, the meditative bird of Minerva.