WINTEB NEIGHBORS. 145 



Another owl neighbor of mine, with whom I pass 

 the time of day more frequently than with the last, 

 lives farther away. I pass his castle every night on 

 my way to the post office, and in winter, if the hour 

 is late enough, am pretty sure to see him standing in 

 his doorway, surveying the passers-by and the land- 

 scape through narrow slits in his eyes. For four suc- 

 cessive winters now have I observed him. As the 

 twilight begins to deepen he rises up out of his cavity 

 in the apple-tree, scarcely faster than the moon rises 

 from behind the hill, and sits in the opening, com- 

 pletely framed by its outlines of gray bark and dead 

 wood, and by his protective coloring virtually in- 

 visible to every eye that does not know he is there. 

 Probably my own is the only eye that has ever pene- 

 trated his secret, and mine never would have done so 

 had I not chanced on one occasion to see him leave 

 his retreat and make a raid upon a shrike that was 

 impaling a shrew-mouse upon a thorn in a neighbor- 

 ing tree, and which I was watching. Failing to get 

 the mouse, the owl returned swiftly to his cavity, and 

 ever since, while going that way, I have been on the 

 lookout for him. Dozens of teams and foot-passen- 

 gers pass him late in the day, but he regards them 

 not, nor they him. When I come along and pause 

 to salute him, he opens his eyes a little wider, and, 

 appearing to recognize me, quickly shrinks and fades 

 into the background of his door in a very weird and 

 curious manner. When he is not at his outlook, or 

 when he is, it requires the best powers of the eye to 



