180 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



sleep. Feigning, I say, because this is what he 

 really did, as I first discovered one day when I cut 

 into his retreat with the axe. The loud blows 

 and the falling chips did not disturb him at all. 

 When I reached in a stick and pulled him over on 

 his side, leaving one of his wings spread out, he 

 made no attempt to recover himself, but lay among 

 the chips and fragments of decayed wood, like a 

 part of themselves. Indeed, it took a sharp eye to 

 distinguish him. Not till I had pulled him forth 

 by one wing, rather rudely, did he abandon his 

 trick of simulated sleep or death. Then, like a 

 detected pickpocket, he was suddenly transformed 

 into another creature. His eyes flew wide open, 

 his talons clutched my finger, his ears were de- 

 pressed, and every motion and look said, "Hands 

 off, at your peril." Finding this game did not 

 work, he soon began to "play 'possum" again. I 

 put a cover over my study wood-box and kept him 

 captive for a week. Look in upon him at any 

 time, night or day, and he was apparently wrapped 

 in the profoundest slumber; but the live mice 

 which I put into his box from time to time found 

 his sleep was easily broken; there would be a sud- 

 den rustle in the box, a faint squeak, and then 

 silence. After a week of captivity I gave him his 

 freedom in the full sunshine: no trouble for him to 

 see which way and where to go. 



Just at dusk in the winter nights, I often hear 

 his soft bur-r-r-r, very pleasing and bell - like. 

 What a furtive, woody sound it is in the winter 



