A Wave of Life. 63 



After cold weather set in the storks went away, 

 probably on account of the scarcity of water, for 

 the owls remained. So numerous were they during 

 the winter, that any evening after sunset I could 

 count forty or fifty individuals hovering over the 

 trees about my house. Unfortunately they did not 

 confine their attentions to the mice, but became de- 

 structive to the birds as well. I frequently watched 

 them at dusk, beating about the trees and bushes 

 in a systematic manner, often a dozen or more of 

 them wheeling together about one tree, like so many 

 moths about a candle, and one occasionally dashing 

 through the branches until a pigeon — usually the 

 Zenaida maculata — or other bird was scared from 

 its perch. The instant the bird left the tree they 

 would all give chase, disappearing in the darkness. 

 I could not endure to see the havoc they were 

 making amongst the ovenbirds (Furnarius rufus — a 

 species for which I have a regard and affection 

 almost superstitious), so I began to shoot the 

 marauders. Very soon, however, I found it was 

 impossible to protect my little favourites. Night 

 after night the owls mustered in their usual numbers, 

 so rapidly were the gaps I made in their ranks 

 refilled. I grew sick of the cruel war in which I 

 had so hopelessly joined, and resolved, not without 

 pain, to let things take their course. A singular 

 circumstance was that the owls began to breed in 

 the middle of winter. The field-labourers and boys 

 found many nests with eggs and young birds in 

 the neighbourhood. I saw one nest in July, our 

 coldest month, with three half-grown young birds 

 in it. They were excessively fat, and, though it 



