A SUBURBAN ESTATE 33 



and the clear noise we can hardly call it a hoot is 

 given out, and it seems to ring down between the 

 forest trees. An answer in the distance, another 

 longer hoo-hoo, hoo-o-o-o-o-o, and the night-bird flies 

 away, leaving the old branch trembling and creaking, 

 the only sounds and movements on this calm night 

 in autumn. 



One of the features of a summer evening in the 

 New Forest is the hooting of many wood-owls. 

 Heard from across the bleak, wild moors, where 

 the nightjar reels out his notes, the sounds are 

 particularly weird and awesome. Whenever I hear 

 this hoot I think of evenings spent in those wild 

 parts, which I look back upon as some of my happiest 

 times with Nature. 



The young remain in their nest for some weeks, 

 and when able to fly, keep near their old haunt. 

 In the summer twilight I have often seen them 

 sitting on a branch, repeatedly giving out their 

 curious notes kee-wick, while their parents were 

 beating a neighbouring meadow for food for their 

 offspring. If these saw their elders approaching 

 they flew towards them in prospect of a meal, while 

 at other times the distant hoot was answered by 

 the short, sharp kee-wick and the youngsters flew 

 away. 



The tawny owl is said to pair for life. I once 

 heard in early spring one of these owls making 

 c 



