152 OUR WINTER BIRDS 



to a feathered man rather than to a feathered bird. 



Our conversation is made up only of "whoos," 

 "ahs," and "whas," but they are uttered in such a 

 variety of ways that they no doubt possess an equally 

 great variety of meanings. Sometimes we are joined 

 by a second (I almost said "third") Owl, and then 

 indeed the words fly fast and furious as we all talk 

 at once. Occasionally the two real Owls sing a duet; 

 or perhaps I should say a piece together. One ut- 

 ters about ten rapid hoots while the other, in a 

 slightly higher tone, hoots half as fast, both per- 

 formers ending together with a prolonged "whoo- 

 ah." Rarely their voices rise to a weird, gasping 

 shriek, emphasized at its conclusion like a cry of 

 distress. One night an Owl perched in the low, 

 sweeping limbs of a live-oak directly above our 

 house-boat on the Suwanee River, gave utterance 

 to this hair-raising scream. If a wild-cat had sud- 

 denly sprung upon us we could not have been more 

 frightened. 



Crows seem to understand the language of Owls 

 even if we do not; and too often my interviews with 

 Barred Owls are interrupted by the black bandits of 

 the air who, sounding their rally call, soon appear 

 in numbers ahd worry the Owl into retreat, while 

 with a chorus of caws they follow. 



The Barred Owl nests in March, laying two to 



