FRIENDS IN FEATHERS 



the heavier passing of bear, but the guide said they were only small 

 black fellows and if we should meet, they would be worse scared 

 than we. Also, he had a rifle and each of us good revolvers. 



With the dawn both birds gave up the struggle and flew away, 

 but from their calls to each other we knew that they were very 

 close. Near six o'clock, when the good old red sun fell fairly 

 on the opening, I nodded to the guide. Quietly as possible he 

 slipped to the tree, climbed it and removed the board. Then he 

 dropped inside the opening a piece of string, weighted with fresh 

 beefsteak and a stone. As soon as he returned and everything 

 had been still for a time, he lowered the meat; then the young Owls 

 set up a perfect clamour. I was kneeling, watching and listen- 

 ing with all my soul. The night had been cold, but I was wet 

 with perspiration. The flight of Mother Owl was noiseless, but 

 I felt her coming and signalled the guide to jerk away the meat. 

 The string broke and the meat fell inside. She alighted with a 

 slow sweep and as she struck, behind her I did my very best at 

 an imitation of her babies' cry that I had been softly practising 

 over in my throat all the night. 



Instantly she paused, turned to my direction, surely for a 

 full second, opened her eyes unusually wide to intensify her vision, 

 then she was gone. Save for a small feather she had slightly 

 disarranged on one wing while working at the board, she seemed 

 to me absolutely perfect. 



"What makes you so white?" asked the guide, as I stared at 

 him wildly. 



"I forgot to squeeze the bulb," I sobbed, breaking down en- 

 tirely, after the long strain. 



"You squeezed it until your finger-nails were white," he said; 

 "I was watching you." 



"I am sure that I didn't," I urged, in the hope that he would 

 say something in contradiction that would help me to remember. 



