298 The Great Horned Owl 
brook, stringing the last speckled beauty, prepara- 
tory to going home. Suddenly the stillness was 
broken by an ominous cry reverberating through 
the forest, and echoing and re-echoing from the 
neighboring hills. As it sounded across the pasture, 
it seemed to vibrate the gathering gloom. The boy 
stood motionless, listening intently, for he knew it to 
be the hunting call of the Great Horned Owl. “He 
will soon be at the old stub watch tower,” said the 
boy to himself, ‘‘ and I will catch him in the act.” 
Cautiously he approached and surveyed the old 
stub, as it stood silhouetted against the sky, above 
the adjacent tree tops, but not a sign of an owl 
was to be seen. Quietly he concealed himself, wait- 
ing and watching, and listening for the different wood- 
folk that might be astir. Near by he heard the twitter 
of an uneasy bird, the squeak of a mouse, the scurry 
of fast-flying feet on the dead leaves, and the splash 
of the muskrats playing in a pool of the creek. These 
sounds were ever sweet music in the ear of the country 
lad, but his thoughts that night were of the Great 
Horned Owl and his hunting. A red squirrel, dis- 
covering him, came upon a branch overhead, chatter- 
ing and scolding as usual, and for an instant the boy 
turned his gaze upon him and then back again to 
the stub. During that brief moment, as silent as 
