Screech Owl Johnnie 309 



that he might try to move and fall off the trellis, once more becoming a prey 

 to cats. As soon as Goldilocks had eaten her dinner, she hurried out to see if 

 he were safe, and ran back reporting that he was fast asleep. And later, when 

 I started on my afternoon bird-rounds, his eyes were still tight shut. 



While I was out, I heard a commotion in the grove and found that the 

 Town Crier had again been rousing the neighborhood, for besides himself, 

 two California Purple Finches, a Golden Pileolated Warbler and a Western 

 Tanager were sitting around, as if waiting to see what their new and terrible 

 neighbor proposed to do. The old Owl had withdrawn to the shadiest edge 

 of the grove, where it could finish its nap most comfortably, but at the outcry 

 gave a low quavering call as if to see if all was well with its family. When 

 answered by its mate and one of its young, it scratched its head and plumed 

 its feathers contentedly. As it did nothing worse, its anxious auditors finally 

 dispersed. 



At dusk I heard troubled monosyllabic calls, for Johnnie was not where 

 he had been left by his parents, but he evidently informed them of his where- 

 abouts, for the next morning he had disappeared from the trellis. That after- 

 noon, to my surprise, I found one of the old Owls perched on a dead tree outside 

 the grove. What was it doing in the open in the daytime? The explanation 

 was not far afield. Below it, on a charred stump only a few feet above the 

 ground sat little Johnnie, sorely in need of guardianship. 



For three days after that, ornithological investigations were made difficult 

 by the last throes of the Oregon rainy season. On the fourth day, during a 

 short clear interval, on passing the Screech Owl grove, I heard the low familiar 

 tremulous note and hurried in through the wet ferns. After a disappointing 

 silence there was a low call and an answer, followed by the rattling of branches 

 almost over my head, when one of the old Owls flew two or three rods across 

 the grove to the tree in which its mate sat, soon going on, its big brown wings 

 disappearing in a dark thicket. When a small, quavering voice came from 

 the edge of the grove, the remaining parent flew out in its direction. Happening 

 to raise my eyes, I discovered Johnnie on a hemlock branch hugged up against 

 the trunk, safely up from the ground at last. When the wind rushed through 

 his tree and swayed his branch, he turned his head, but only cuddled closer 

 to the trunk, and, fluffing up his feathers, put his bill down into them. When 

 his parent called, there was no answer, and when the rain came down again 

 and I went out through the ferns beside him, though I spoke, the little gray 

 figure, gray as the bark of the hemlock, sat with tightly closed eyes and 

 answered me never a word. 



The next day I found an Owlet that seemed to be smaller and more helpless 

 than Johnnie sleeping well out on a branch. Soon after, owlish noises were 

 followed by a fall. Forcing my way over logs and through brush and ferns 

 I 'finally reached a burned-out stump. Down in the bottom of the blackened 

 pit sat the poor Httle Owl! Later in the afternoon I heard infantile Owl talk 



