THE SCREECH OWL 



AT one point in the grayest, most shaggy part 

 of the woods, I come suddenly upon a brood of 

 screech owls, full grown, sitting together upon a 

 dry, moss-draped limb, but a few feet from the 

 ground. I pause within four or five yards of them 

 and am looking about me, when my eye lights 

 upon these gray, motionless figures. They sit 

 perfectly upright, some with their backs and 

 some with their breasts toward me, but every 

 head turned squarely in my direction. Their eyes 

 are closed to a mere black line; through this 

 crack they are watching me, evidently thinking 

 themselves unobserved. The spectacle is weird 

 and grotesque, and suggests something impish 

 and uncanny. It is a new effect, the night side 

 of the woods by daylight. After observing them 

 a moment I take a single step toward them, when, 

 quick as thought, their eyes fly wide open, their 

 attitude is changed, they bend, some this way, 

 some that, and, instinct with life and motion, 

 stare wildly around them. Another step, and 

 they all take flight but one, which stoops low on 

 the branch, and with the look of a frightened 

 cat regards me for a few seconds over its shoulder. 



