THe STAMPING GROUND ON 



Photo by Howard H. Cleaves 

 NESTING ISLAND IN LAKi-: GEORGE 



Here the gulls preen, feed their young, play, and sleep; also a trail (open space in 



bushes) where birds walk to and from the shore of the lake, 

 by the roots and trampled under foot to keep the space clear. 



The grass has been torn up 



this deep antipathy toward owls is prob- 

 ably that the nests of the former are oc- 

 casionally rifled during the night by the 

 latter, and at times the owl actually cap- 

 tures roosting adult birds, as their feath- 

 ers found in the owl's nest-cavity or day- 

 time retreat would testify. 



If is no wonder, then, whenever an owl 

 is so unfortunate as to be driven into a 

 conspicuous position during the hours of 

 light that some jay or crovir or catbird 

 should break loose with a series of ter- 

 rible curses at the top of his lungs, and 

 thus call together a bevy of irate confed- 

 erates, who proceed to mob the poor bird 

 of the night. 



It is only necessary, then, to secure a 

 stuffed owl and place it on a perch in 

 some open site in order to "start some- 

 thing" in the bird world. And by con- 

 cealing one's self near by in a blind, either 

 of the umbrella variety or of some nat- 

 ural objects, such as corn-stalks, cat-tails, 

 etc., the onslaught may be witnessed and 

 photographed to advantage. An account 



of one or two of the writer's experiences 

 with a mounted owl may be of interest. 



I had been rambling through some 

 marshes near the quaint old village of 

 Keyport, New Jersey, and chanced to fall 

 into conversation with an old fisherman 

 who practiced taxidermy as an avocation. 

 It is always well to look over the mounted 

 specimens in possession of these isolated 

 naturalists, for an Eskimo curlew, pas- 

 senger-pigeon, or some other rarity may 

 be found perched on a bureau, sideboard, 

 or mantelpiece. There was just one bird 

 in the fisherman's collection that inter- 

 ested me, and this was a barred owl 

 which gazed out over the room from his 

 position on top of the grandfather's clock. 

 I wanted, that owl. My host protested, 

 saying that the specimen was falling apart, 

 due to age, and asked if I wouldn't care 

 for some other mount. But I insisted 

 that I cared only for the owl, and at last 

 its owner wrapped up the shabby-looking 

 bird and apologetically accepted a dollar 

 for it. 



