WOODLAND PATHS 



from the cold, for it was the voice of her 

 mate hunting. Sailing silently on bat-like 

 wings he was beating the open spaces of 

 the wood, hoping to find a partridge at 

 roost, and I fancy the deep " whoo; hoo, 

 hoo, hoo; whoo, whoo," all on the same 

 note, was a grumble that trained dogs and 

 pump-guns are making the game birds 

 so scarce. Perhaps that blood-curdling 

 screech was one of triumph over the sud- 

 den death of a rabbit, for Bubo virginiana 

 is tremendously rapacious and will eat 

 any living thing which he can carry away 

 in his claws. 



It might, too, have been his method 

 of expressing ecstasy over the nest and 

 the promise of spring which the horned 

 owl alone has the courage to anticipate 

 with nest-building in these raw and barren 

 days, when winter seemingly still has his 

 grip firmly set on us. Oftentimes his 

 4 



