A YEAR IN THE FIELDS 



vals all winter, his hiding-place is discov. 

 ered by the jays and nuthatches, and pro- 

 claimed from the treetops for the space of 

 half an hour or so, with all the powers of 

 voice they can command. Four times dur- 

 ing one winter they called me out to behold 

 this little ogre feigning sleep in his den, 

 sometimes in one apple-tree, sometimes in 

 another. Whenever I heard their cries, I 

 knew my neighbor was being berated. The 

 birds would take turns at looking in upon 

 him, and uttering their alarm-notes. Every 

 jay within hearing would come to the spot, 

 and at once approach the hole in the trunk 

 or limb, and with a kind of breathless eager- 

 ness and excitement take a peep at the owl, 

 and then join the outcry. When I ap- 

 proached they would hastily take a final 

 look, and then withdraw and regard my 

 movements intently. After accustoming 

 my eye to the faint light of the cavity 

 for a few moments, I could usually make 

 out the owl at the bottom feigning 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 



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