180 



THE OOLOGJST. 



the short afternoon, and I tramped my 

 weary way homeward in the gathering 

 gloom, the big bass voice resounded 

 out from the trees with "who, — ,who, 

 who," the space representing a rest in 

 the usual notes, and though far away 

 the heavy tones followed me on my 

 way. 



On Feb. 17th of this year, I missed 

 the pair from the tract of woods, 

 though I searched closely for them, as 

 I was becoming anxious to inspect the 

 domestic arrangements of Mrs. Bubo, 

 and having been B. Hindtime once in 

 my life at least, I had no desire to be 

 as unfortunate in this case. On my 

 way home, however, I passed through 

 a. twenty-acre tract of woods east of 

 the first-mentioned and adjoining it, 

 hearing the usual Crow racket, and 1 

 found my Bubos, which had apparently 

 pre-empted and were at home in the 

 new claim, though as yet there was no 

 evidence of housekeeping. On the fol- 

 lowing Saturday, Feb. 24th, I found 

 myself in the east timber again looking 

 for Bubo. I had crossed a small era- 

 vine and was ascending the rising 

 ground on the opposite side, when Mr- 

 Bubo started from the brushy trees 

 ahead of me. He flapped silently away, 

 though not unobserved by several loit- 

 ering Crows, and the usual racket be- 

 gan. What interested me, however, 

 was an old nest in the top of a scrubby 

 oak, about thirty feet from the ground, 

 and I felt that set number one of the 

 season was about to be recorded. 



It was a cold day with six inches of 

 snow caked on the ground, I saw that 

 the tree was a scratchy one, and I had 

 no climbers, but up I clambered. 

 When about half way up I felt a catch 

 in my left leg and it refused to come 

 up properly. Moreover that nest 

 didn't look just right, and I felt that it 

 was too early for eggs anyway, but I 

 kept scratching up and reached the 

 nest. It was not empty, but tilled to the 

 brim with dried leaves. I descended 



as rapidly as the brushy limbs and the 

 catch in my leg would admit, with 

 bleeding wrists and bruised shins. It 

 was a colder day than 1 had thought. 



I readjusted my wraps and went on 

 through the woods. Soon I saw an- 

 other old nest in a tree ahead of me, 

 and on appi'oaching it, I saw a pair of 

 tufts protruding above the nest, and a 

 familiar head peering over the edge of 

 the ruin, then Mrs. Bubo slightly 

 spread her wings over her treasures- 

 and crouched lower to await develop- 

 ments. A few blows on the trunk of 

 the tree sent her flapping away into 

 another portion of the woods. There 

 was no mistake this time. Here was 

 a smooth-barked hickory, with no limb 

 nor prominence for twenty-five feet, 

 with the nest set in a crotch eight feet 

 higher. However, I forgot my bleed- 

 ing wrists, ray bruised shins, and the 

 catch in my leg, threw off my coat,. 

 and began to reach and pull up the 

 smooth trunk. My first efforts carried 

 me up to within eight feet of the 

 first limb. Then I stuck and with 

 each new yeach I failed to gain au inch. 

 In fact, I lost several inches. I felt 

 that I had reached a crisis. To slide 

 down from that height was ignominy, 

 while above me was that which alone 

 could satisfy my longing nature. Mr. 

 Editor, you have doubtless been right 

 there. I made a final desperate reach, 

 clung fast, pulled up, and soon landed 

 on the limb below the nest. But why 

 prolong a short story? I found two 

 beautiful fresh eggs lying about four 

 inches apart on the bare twigs of an 

 old Hawk'? .nest and thus opened the 

 season of '94. 



The Bubos, disheartened by this dis- 

 aster, returned to their forest quarters. 

 In the early March evenings I could 

 hear the pair discussing their affairs in 

 resounding tones. About March 20th I 

 failed to find Mrs. Bubo in company 

 with her spouse and he had again ceas- 

 ed to display his magnificent voice. 



