The Owl, Bird of Night 83 



enough to hold a board. Crawling up in a stooping po- 

 sition we took the back out of the nest box and fixed it 

 so that it would drop down to show the inside, and then 

 could be fastened up again. 



A month later we climbed up into the gable end of 

 the barn and pulled out three of the funniest, fuzziest, 

 monkey-faced little brats that I have ever set eyes upon. 

 They blinked, snapped their bills, and hissed like a boxful 

 of snakes. We took them to the ground and doubled up 

 in laughter at their queer antics. They bobbed and 

 screwed around in more funny attitudes in a minute than 

 any contortionist I ever saw. 



We found them graded In size and height, as care- 

 fully as a carpenter builds the steps of a staircase. They 

 were lumpy-looking, as if some amateur taxidermist had 

 taken them in hand and rammed the cotton in, wad at 

 a time with a stick, till he had the youngsters bulging 

 out in knobs all over. 



The eldest we called the colonel, but looking at him 

 from a humanized standpoint, it seemed to me he had 

 been put together wrongly, for his chest had slipped clear 

 around on his back. At times he was a peaceable-looking 

 citizen, but he was always shy and cautious. He turned 

 his back on the camera in disgust, or sat in a sour state 

 of silence, but one eye was always open, watching every 

 movement we made. 



While the nestlings were in the downy stage the 

 mother always stayed with them during the day. She 

 seemed to be a widow, with triplets on her hands, for we 

 never saw the father. If he came to see the children or 

 to help in the house it was only in the dark of the night. 



