THE BIRD OF NIGHT 



pounding the tree, without a suspicion that the sly 

 brown bird is snuggled closely on her eggs. 



There is one time at least when this silent bird utterly 

 changes its usual behavior, and that is when she has 

 young, and her nest is invaded. I must tell about one 

 such experience which I had. I was camping one 

 spring with a party of friends in a wild region, on the 

 wooded shore of a large lake. One day, in early June, 

 a furious storm was raging, the wind blowing almost a 

 hurricane directly on shore, raising surf that would 

 have done credit to the ocean. Clad in rubber clothing, 

 we were exploring the woods near camp. At length, as 

 I struggled through the wet branches, I caught sight of 

 what appeared to be a crow's nest, about twenty feet 

 up a small oak. Upon close approach I noticed two 

 brownish knobs or tufts sticking up from the nest and 

 waving in the gale. Then a head was raised, and a 

 shrewd-looking face with a pair of bright yellow eyes 

 was turned toward me. Beckoning to my friends to 

 approach cautiously, I whispered excitedly as they 

 drew near "A Long-eared Owl, for all the world!'* 

 We were nearly under the nest, and had a fine chance 

 for mutual staring. Then I began to ascend the tree, 

 and the owl flitted silently off into the shrubbery. The 

 nest was certainly an old crow's nest of the previous 

 season, slightly repaired on top by the addition of a few 

 sticks and leaves; in it were four owlets and an addled 

 egg. The young were clad in whitish down, with the 

 "Juvenal" plumage beginning to show, and were prob* 



64 



