OUR VALLEY. 11 



holes in the open uncultivated fields down the 

 valley, — the burrowing- owl, known popularly, 

 though falsely, as the bird who shares its nest 

 with prairie dogs and rattlesnakes. Though they 

 do not share their quarters with their neighbors, 

 they have large families of their own. We once 

 passed a burrow around which nine owls were sit- 

 ting. The children of the ranchman called the 

 birds the ' how-do-you-do owls,' from the way 

 they bow their heads as people pass. The owls 

 believe in facing the enemy, and the Mexicans 

 say they will twist their heads off if you go round 

 them times enough. 



One of our neighbors milked his cows out in a 

 field where the burrowing owls had a nest, and 

 he told me that his collie had nightly battles with 

 the birds. I rode down one evening to see the 

 droll performance, and getting there ahead of the 

 milkers found the bare knoll of the pasture peo- 

 pled with ground squirrels and owls. The squir- 

 rels sat with heads sticking out of their holes, 

 or else stood up outside on their hind legs, with 

 the sun on their light breasts, looking, as Mr. 

 Roosevelt says, like ' picket pins.' The little 

 old yellowish owls who matched the color of the 

 pasture sat on the fence posts, while the darker 

 colored young ones sat close by their holes, match- 

 ing the color of the earth they lived in. As I 

 watched, one of the old birds flew down to feed 

 its young. A comical little fellow ran up to meet 



