176 Ways of Wood Folk. 



his swoop is swift and sure. He utters no sound. 

 Like a good Nimrod he hunts silently. 



The flight of an owl, noiseless as the sweep of a 

 cloud shadow, is the most remarkable thing about 

 him. The wings are remarkably adapted to the silent 

 movement that is essential to surprising birds at dusk. 

 The feathers are long and soft. The laminae extend- 

 ing from the wing quills, instead of ending in the 

 sharp feather edge of other birds, are all drawn out to 

 fine hair points, through which the air can make no 

 sound as it rushes in the swift wing-beats. The whisli 

 of a duck's wings can be heard two or three hundred 

 yards on a still night. The wings of an eagle rustle 

 like silk in the wind as he mounts upward. A sparrow's 

 wings flutter or whir as he changes his flight. Every 

 one knows the startled rush of a quail or grouse. But 

 no ear ever heard the passing of a great owl, spread- 

 ing his five-foot wings in rapid flight. 



He knows well, however, when to vary his program,, 

 Once I saw him hovering at dusk over some wild 

 land covered with bushes and dead grass, a favorite 

 winter haunt of meadow-larks. His manner showed 

 that he knew his game was near. He kept hovering 

 over a certain spot, swinging off noiselessly to right 

 or left, only to return again. Suddenly he struck his 

 wings twice over his head with a loud flap, and 

 swooped instantly. It was a clever trick. The bird 



