168



Miss E. F. Chawner,



creature imaginable. If I stand near his aviary he flies to a perch

near the wires and holds his head down to be tickled, and when I go

away he calls after me as long as I am in sight. When I go the

round of the birds every morning, he looks out for me, calling and

watching, and when I unfasten his door and go in, he snuggles up,

coaxing and caressing me, catching my coat in his claw lest I

should go away before he has had all the petting he desires. I have

owned many tame birds, but never one more truly affectionate. But

there are two sides to every shield. Let but a strange man approach,

and my docile pet is transformed into a hissing, snapping fury. As

one visitor truly remarked, at such moments he looks more like a

lynx than a bird. We believe that some man has tormented him

and he cannot forget it. The aviary boy dare not open his door and

changes the water and rakes the floor over from outside, while the

Owl glares at him ready for battle. To other birds he is frankly

detestable. I once, when much pressed for room, put another Owl

in with him and hoped that they would tolerate each other, but if I

had left it there, it would have been killed in ten minutes’ time.

Possibly he would behave more amiably to the opposite sex of his

own species, but I do not feel very sanguine about it, and in all

probability he will not get the chance, as these Owls rarely come

into the market. His voice is curiously weak for his size, a feeble

squeak appears to be all that he can do, but he is conversationally

inclined and “ talks” freely. One of his amusements is to carry a

piece of wood about and play with it, usually finishing by throwing

it into his bath and jumping in after it. He has a wide spread of

wing and needs a good big house.


Just beyond, again in a small square aviary, is a cock Mexican

Pigmy Owl. He measures six inches from his beak to the tip of his

long tail, which he wags from side to side in the most comical

manner. He is so rare that I have never been able to procure a

mate for him, and he vainly utters his metallic clink night after

night through the breeding season, but the lady never comes. His

cry “ carries” surprisingly, it sounds like the clink of a small hammer

on metal and is uttered nine or ten times in succession, then a short

pause, and da capo, Poor little Owl! I would so gladly give him

the longed for companion !



