IN THE HEMLOCKS. 55 



ing rock. The other day, passing by a ledge near the 

 top of a mountain in a singularly desolate locality, my 

 eye rested upon one of these structures, looking pre- 

 cisely as if it grew there, so in keeping was it with the 

 mossy character of the rock ; and I have had a grow- 

 ing affection for the bird ever since. The rock seemed 

 to love the nest and to claim it as its own. I said, 

 what a lesson in architecture is here ! Here is a house 

 that was built, but with such loving care and such 

 beautiful adaptation of the means to the end, that it 

 looks like a product of nature. The same wise econ- 

 omy is noticeable in the nests of all birds. No bird 

 would paint its house white or red, or add aught for 

 show. 



At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part of the 

 woods, I come suddenly upon a brood of screech-owls, 

 full grown, sitting together upon a dry, moss-draped 

 limb, but a few feet from the ground. I pause within 

 four or five yards of them and am looking about me, 

 when my eye alights upon these gray, motionless fig- 

 ures. They sit perfectly upright, some with their 

 backs and some with their breasts toward me, but 

 every head turned squarely in my direction. Their 

 eyes are closed to a mere black line ; through this 

 crack they are watching me, evidently thinking them- 

 selves unobserved. The spectacle is weird and gro- 

 tesque, and suggests something impish and uncanny. 

 It is a new effect, the night side of the woods by day- 

 light. After observing them a moment I take a single 



