The Long-eared Owl 



days. The youngsters were freezing faithfully, as usual, — all save the 

 runt of the brood who still favored the cowering pose. The male parent 

 had delivered himself of his quaint objurgations, and had retired from 

 the scene in disgust. The female had caterwauled and cajoled and 

 exploded and entreated by turns, all in vain. Matters seemed to have 

 reached an impasse, and silence had fallen over the landscape. I had 

 time to note the sage pinks, bright with morning dew, and the subtle, 

 soothing, gray-greens of the sage itself, as it rose in billows over the 

 slopes of the closely-investing hills. All of a sudden the Owl left her 

 perch, flew to some distance and pounced upon the ground, where she 

 could not well be seen through the intervening foliage. Upon the instant 

 of the pounce, arose the piercing cries of a creature in distress, and I, 

 supposing that the bird in anger had fallen upon a harmless Flicker 



Photo by the Author 



which I knew dwelt in that neck of the woods, scrambled down instanter 

 and hurried forward. The prompt binoculars revealed neither Flicker 

 nor mouse. There was nothing whatever in the Owl's talons. The 

 victor and the victim were one and the same, and I was the dupe. Yet so 



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