A Wave of Life. 63 
After cold weather set in the storks went away, 
probably on account of the scarcity of water, for 
the owls remained. So numerous were they during 
the winter, that any evening after sunset I could 
count forty or fifty individuals hovering over the 
trees about my house. Unfortunately they did not 
confine their attentions to the mice, but became de- 
structive to the birdsas well. I frequently watched 
them at dusk, beating about the trees and bushes 
in a systematic manner, often a dozen or more of 
them wheeling together about one tree, like so many 
moths about a candle, and one occasionally dashing 
through the branches until a pigeon—usually the 
Zenaida maculata—or other bird was scared from 
its perch. The instant the bird left the tree they 
would all give chase, disappearing in the darkness. 
[ could not endure to see the havoc they were 
making amongst the ovenbirds (Furnarius rufus—a 
species for which I have a regard and affection 
almost superstitious), so I began to shoot the 
marauders. Very soon, however, I found it was 
impossible to protect my little favourites. Night 
after night the owls mustered in their usual numbers, 
so rapidly were the gaps I made in their ranks 
refilled. I grew sick of the cruel war in which I 
had so hopelessly joined, and resolved, not without 
pain, to let things take their course. A singular 
circumstance was that the owls began to breed in 
the middle of winter. The field-labourers and boys 
found many nests with eggs and young birds in 
the neighbourhood. I saw one nest in July, our 
coldest month, with three half-grown young birds 
in it. They were excessively fat, and, though it 
