AN OWL OF THE NOETH 



IT is midwinter, and from the northland a bliz- 

 zard of icy winds and swirling snow crystals 

 is sweeping with fury southward over woods and 

 fields. We sit in our warm room before the crack- 

 ling log fire and listen to the shriek of the gale 

 and wonder how it fares with the little bundles of 

 feathers huddled among the cedar branches. 



We picture to ourselves all the wild kindred 

 sheltered from the raging storm; the gray squir- 

 rels rocking in their lofty nests of leaves; the 

 chipmunks snug underground; 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 wonderingly 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 up- 

 ward, see two great yellow eyes apparently hang- 

 ing in space, the body and wings of the bird in 



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