336 An Owl of the North [FOURTH WEEK 



the screech owls deep in the hollow apple trees, all warm 

 and dry. 



But there are those for whom the blizzard has no terrors. 

 Far to the north on the barren wastes of Labrador, where 

 the gale first comes in from the sea and gathers strength 

 as it comes, a great owl flaps upward and on broad pinions, 

 white as the driving snowflakes, sweeps southward with 

 the storm. Now over ice-bound river or lake, or rushing 

 past a myriad dark spires of spruce, then hovering won- 

 deringly over a multitude of lights from the streets of 

 some town, the strong Arctic bird forges southward, until 

 one night, if we only knew, we might open our window 

 and, looking upward, see two great yellow eyes apparently 

 hanging in space, the body and wings of the bird in snow- 

 white plumage lost amidst the flakes. We thrill in admira- 

 tion at the grand bird, so fearless of the raging elements. 



Only the coldest and fiercest storms will tempt him 

 from the north, and then not because he fears snow or 

 cold, but in order to keep within reach of the snowbirds 

 which form his food. He seeks for places where a less 

 severe cold encourages small birds to be abroad, or where 

 the snow's crust is less icy, through which the field mice 

 may bore their tunnels, and run hither and thither in the 

 moonlight, pulling down the weeds and cracking their 

 frames of ice. Heedless of passing clouds, these little 

 rodents scamper about, until a darker, swifter shadow 

 passes, and the feathered talons of the snowy owl close 

 over the tiny, shivering bundle of fur. 



Occasionally after such a storm, one may come across 

 this white owl in some snowy field, hunting in broad day- 



