132 SIGNS AND SEASONS 



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 decide the point, as the empty cavity 

 itself is almost an exact image of him. If the 

 whole thing had been carefully studied, it could not 

 have answered its purpose better. The owl stands 

 quite perpendicular, presenting a front of light 

 mottled gray; the eyes are closed to a mere slit, 

 the ear-feathers depressed, the beak buried in the 

 plumage, and the whole attitude is one of silent, 

 motionless waiting and observation. If a mouse 

 should be seen crossing the highway, or scudding 

 over any exposed part of the snowy surface in the 

 twilight, the owl would doubtless swoop down upon 

 it. I think the owl has learned to distinguish me 

 from the rest of the passers-by; at least, when I 

 stop before him, and he sees himself observed, he 

 backs down into his den, as I have said, in a very 

 amusing manner. Whether bluebirds, nuthatches, 

 and chickadees — birds that pass the night in cavi- 

 ties of trees — ever run into the clutches of the 

 dozing owl, I should be glad to know. My im- 

 pression is, however, that they seek out smaller 

 cavities. An old willow by the roadside blew down 

 one summer, and a decayed branch broke open, 

 revealing a brood of half-fledged owls, and many 

 feathers and quills of bluebirds, orioles, and other 

 songsters, showing plainly enough why all birds fear 

 and berate the owl. 



