84 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



Hardly that, either, for there was not a feather, 

 stick, or chip as evidence of a nest. The eggs had 

 been laid upon the sloping cavern floor, and in the 

 course of their incubation must have rolled clear 

 down to the opposite end, where the opening was so 

 narrow that the buzzard could not have brooded them 

 until she had rolled them back. The wonder is that 

 they had ever hatched. 



But they had, and what they hatched was another 

 wonder. Nature never intended a young buzzard 

 for any eye but his mother's, and she hates the sight 

 of him. Elsewhere I have told of a buzzard that 

 devoured her eggs at the approach of an enemy, so 

 delicately balanced are her unnamable appetites and 

 her maternal affections! 



The two strange nestlings in the log must have 

 been three weeks old, I should say, the larger weigh- 

 ing about four pounds. They were covered, as young 

 owls are, with deep snow-white down, out of which 

 protruded their black scaly, snaky legs. They stood 

 braced on these long black legs, their receding 

 heads drawn back, shoulders thrust forward, and 

 bodies humped between the featherless wings like 

 challenging- tom-cats. 



O O 



In order to examine them, I crawled into the den 

 not a difficult act, for the opening measured four 

 feet and a half across at the mouth. The air was 

 musty inside, yet surprisingly free from odor. The 

 floor was absolutely clean, but on the top and sides 



