152 BIRD STORIES FROM BURROUGHS 



They fly swiftly and softly, and disperse through 

 the trees. 



A winter neighbor of mine, in whom I am in- 

 terested, and who perhaps lends me his support 

 after his kind, is a little red owl, whose retreat 

 is in the heart of an old apple-tree just over the 

 fence. Where he keeps himself in spring and 

 summer, I do not know, but late every fall, and 

 at intervals all winter, his hiding-place is dis- 

 covered by the jays and nuthatches, and pro- 

 claimed from the treetops for the space of half 

 an hour or so, with all the powers of voice they 

 can command. Four times during one winter 

 they called me out to behold this little ogre feign- 

 ing sleep in his den, sometimes in one apple-tree, 

 sometimes in another. Whenever I heard their 

 cries, I knew my neighbor was being berated. 

 The birds would take turns at looking in upon 

 him, and uttering their alarm-notes. Every jay 

 within hearing would come to the spot, and at 

 once approach the hole in the trunk or limb, and 

 with a kind of breathless eagerness and excite- 

 ment take a peep at the owl, and then join the 

 outcry. When I approached they would hastily 

 take a final look, and then withdraw and regard 

 my movements intently. After accustoming my 

 eye to the faint light of the cavity for a few 



