WINTER NEIGHBORS. — 69 
his secret, and mine never would have done so had I 
not chanced on one occasion to see him leave his re- 
treat and make a raid upon a shrike that was impal- 
ing a shrew-mouse upon a thorn in a neighboring tree, 
and which I was watching. Failing to get.the mouse. 
the owl returned swiftly to his cavity, and ever since 
while going that way, I have been on the lookout foi 
him. Dozens of teams and foot-passengers pass him 
late in the day, but he regards them not, nor they 
him. When I come alone and pause to salute him, 
he opens his eyes a little wider, and, appearing to 
recognize me, quickly shrinks and fades into the back- 
ground of his door in a very weird and curious 
manner. When he is not at his outlook, or when he 
is, it requires the best powers of the eye to decide the 
point, as the empty cavity itself is almost an exact 
image of him. If the whole thing had been carefully 
studied it could not have answered its purpose better. 
The owl stands quite perpendicular, presenting a front 
of light mottled gray; the eyes are closed to a mere 
slit, the ear-feathers depressed, the beak buried in the 
plumage, and the whole attitude is one of silent, 
motionless waiting and observation. If a mouse 
should be seen crossing the highway, or scudding over 
any exposed part of the snowy surface in the twilight, 
the owl would doubtless swoop down upon it. I 
think the owl has learned to distinguish me from the 
rest of the passers-by; at least, when I stop before 
him, and he sees himself observed, he backs down into 
his den, as I have said, in a very amusing manner. 
Whether bluebirds, nut-hatches, and chickadees — 
birds that pass the night in cavities of trees — ever 
run into the clutches of the dozing owl, I should be 
glad to know. My impression is, however, that they 
