AN OLD BARBED OWL 53 



The old swamp owl hunted and killed at will about the 

 fields and through the pine woods, but always after the 

 shadows of night had gathered ; so the eyes were few that 

 saw him come and go, and no ear ever heard the passing 

 of his silent wings. However, it will not do to suppose for 

 a moment that the farmers were the only ones who gave the 

 owl a bad name. All the small birds and animals knew 

 him, although in most part only by the sound of his voice, 

 and they feared him as they feared death. 



In a thick growth of young pine trees at the far edge of 

 the peanut field the crows collected one autumn to roost. 

 Evening after evening they came to the grove in a long 

 silent stream from their feeding pastures off to the south- 

 east. Before going to roost they would circle about the 

 place for a time in a noisy throng, their black forms cross- 

 ing and recrossing each other's trails. Not until the twi- 

 light began to thicken would they settle for sleep. One 

 clear starlight night, while returning across the fields from 

 a long day's tramp, my course led me near the roosting 

 place of the crows. When just opposite the grove I heard 

 a flapping in one of the pines, accompanied by two or three 

 startled, strangled "caws." Something had seized a crow 

 on its perch and was coming with it straight toward me. 

 Not twenty feet overhead passed the big barred owl with 

 a struggling crow in his claws. It required great effort to 



