' i 84 THE SPRING OF THE YEAR 



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

 ' r 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 

 v , 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. 



In order to examine them, I crawled into the den 

 not a difficult act, for the opening measured four i) 

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

 musty inside, yet surprisingly free from odor. The 2 

 floor was absolutely clean, but on the top and sides 



. ^ -.. ............ ... 



