GREAT HORNED OWL 185 



June 23, 1852. I hear my old Walden owl. Its first 

 note is almost like a somewhat peevish scream or squeal 

 of a child shrugging its shoulders, and then succeed two 

 more moderate and musical ones. 



July 5, 1852. I hear my hooting owl now just before 

 sunset. 1 You can fancy it the most melancholy sound 

 in Nature, as if Nature meant by this to stereotype and 

 make permanent in her quire the dying moans of a 

 human being, made more awful by a certain gurgling 

 melodiousness. It reminds of ghouls and idiots and in- 

 sane howlings. One answers from far woods in a strain 

 made really sweet by distance. Some poor weak relic 

 of mortality who has left hope behind, and howls like 

 an animal, yet with human sobs, on entering the dark 

 valley. I find myself beginning with the letters gl when 

 I try to imitate it. Yet for the most part it is a sweet 

 and melodious strain to me. 



April 2, 1853. Heard the hooting owl in Ministerial 

 Swamp. It sounded somewhat like the hounding or 

 howling of some dogs, and as often as the whistle of 

 the engine sounded I noticed a resemblance in the tone. 

 A singular kind of squealing introduced into its note. 



April 9, 1853. Beyond the desert, 2 hear the hooting 

 owl, which, as formerly, I at first mistook for the hound- 

 ing of a dog, — a squealing eee followed by hoo hoo hoo 

 deliberately, and particularly sonorous and ringing. This 

 at 2 p. m. Now mated. Pay their addresses by day, 

 says Brooks. 3 



1 [At Ministerial Swamp.] 



2 [Dugan Desert, neai Ministerial Swamp.] 

 8 [George Brooks, of Concord, doubtless.] 



