28 MY HIDING-PLACE. 
the recluse lives, where it lives, or what it does, 
are secrets. 
Early in the spring, whilst collecting the mi- 
grant, birds which arrive at Vancouver Island in 
great numbers and variety of species—some to 
remain the summer through, others only to rest 
awhile as they journey farther north to their 
breeding-grounds—Dame Fortune, fickle though 
she generally be, deigned for once to smile, and 
afforded me an opportunity to watch the habits 
of the Pigmy Owl. Two of these strangers 
selected as their home a gnarled and twisted 
oak (Quercus garrijana), that grew alone on 
an open patch of gravelly ground near a small 
lake. Close by this lake were the remains of an 
Indian lodge, that had been once used as a fishing- 
station, affording me a capital place of conceal- 
ment wherein to watch the manners and customs 
of these—to the aborigines—potent and much 
dreaded spirits. 
My camp was not far away, thus enabling me 
to reach my hiding-place at the first blush of 
morning. No sooner did the rosy light creep 
down the valley and spread over the plain, than 
the owls were up and stirring—evidently hungry 
from a night’s fasting; for, like a well-con- 
ducted couple, they retired early to rest. 
