WHAT I HAVE DONE WITH BIRDS 



none. Often we heard the crashing of deer, and at times the 

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

 black fellows and should we meet they would be worse scared 

 than we. Anyway, the guide had a rifle and both 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. About 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 every- 

 thing had been still for a time, he lowered the meat and the 

 young Owls set up a perfect clamor. I was kneeling, watching 

 and listening with all my soul. The night had been cold, but I 

 was wet with perspiration. The flight of Mother Owl was noise- 

 less, but I felt her coming and signaled 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 

 level 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 feather she had slightly 

 disarranged on one wing in 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 

 entirely, after the long strain. 



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

 "I was watching you." 



60 



