The Owl, Bird of Night 85 



back of the squirrel, and with wings spread, an owl can 

 break the animal's neck with a few hard blows of his beak. 

 The head is usually eaten first, either because that is a 

 favorite part, or because the destruction of the head gives 

 the bird better assurance of the animal's death. 



The next time I climbed the cobwebbed rafters to 

 photograph the young owls I cautiously thrust in my hand 

 to pull out the nearest nestling. In a twinkling he fell 

 flat on his back and clutched me with both claws. Of all 

 the grips I ever felt, that was the most like a needle-toothed 

 steel trap. I felt the twinge of pain as the sharp talons 

 sank into the flesh. I cringed and the grip tightened. 

 The slightest movement was the signal for a tenser grasp. 

 It was the clutch that fastens in the prey and never re- 

 laxes till the stillness of death follows. I hung to the 

 rafters and gritted my teeth till I could wedge in my thumb 

 and pry the claws loose. 



The young owls were hardly old enough to fly, but 

 they could raise their wings and run like a cat for the 

 darkest corner. We had never tried the camera on such 

 a ferocious lot of birds. They knew the art of self- 

 defense like a professional prize-fighter. Approach one, 

 and he was on his guard. He would turn on his back in 

 a second and throw up his claws. " Come on, I'm ready," 

 he seemed to say, and we kept our distance. The oldest 

 one had a villainous temper; he was as much opposed to 

 having his picture taken as a superstitious Indian. Gen- 

 erally he sat with his chin resting on his chest like a broken- 

 down lawyer. Once, when the photographer was least 

 expecting it, he dropped on to his trousers' leg as lightly 

 as a feather, but with the strength and tenacity of a mad 



