AN OWLGLASS TRICK. 85 



and one slow, plodding nuthatch. By and bye a mature 

 and a baby black-throated green warbler. 



"Not so very horrible, after all," these said. "That 

 chickadee tribe always was emotional, and quite too brawl- 

 ing and excitable at such times for reputable birds of our 

 reticent equilibrium." 



So they all flew off, leaving the chickadees to settle with 

 the bird-eating intruder if they wished. After satisfying 

 their curiosity and teaching the children that here was a 

 Horror, not only to be avoided but to be proclaimed 

 abroad, these, too, flew away. No doubt each adult bird 

 had the idea that though his young were old enough to fly 

 from the Terror, he had wisely warned the cedar birds and 

 goldfinches, whose children had hardly left the nest, that 

 they must keep still that night, for owls were around. 



The -forest was now deserted, left to the dead owl, the 

 dead stillness, and to me. 



Taking his majesty down from his perch, I brought him 

 home. The drive to the woods in company with the bota- 

 ny box and the lunch basket had spoiled his ancient beau- 

 ty. With one horn cocked forward over an eye, his tail- 

 feathers broken, his breast plumage rumpled, dethroned, 

 unkempt and disreputable, he now hangs in a dark closet 

 by one leg. When spring comes, and the breeding season 

 is on, he shall emerge from his darkness and be once more 

 taken to the wood, there to be perched in mock dignity 

 and awfulness on a tree. Then, with young nestlings to 

 protect, I'll see if I can't make the phlegmatic nuthatches 

 and Nashvilles scold, warn, and flutter about the oflend- 

 ing bird, who shall sit just in the range of my opera-glass. 



Every month again has its own charms and beauty. We sit qiii- 

 etly at home and Nature decks herself out for us. — Sir John Lub- 

 bock. 



