The Pygmy Owls 



to interpret this, save as the passage of the lime and phosphates of their 

 victims' bones, which alone their voracious systems reject. 



In spite of his insignificant size, the Pygmy is a dashing little brigand, 

 and no bird up to the size of a Robin is safe from its clutches. So bold is he 

 that upon one occasion, when Mr. Bowles threw a large stick at one, the 

 Owl charged at the passing missile with all imaginable fury. The diet 

 descends not infrequently to insects, but squirrels of twice the Owl's 

 weight are promptly seized when occasion offers. Dark days are as good 

 as night to them, and they are sometimes abroad on bright days as well. 



The flight of the Pygmy Owl is not muffled by softened wing-linings, 

 as is the case with the Short-eared and others which hunt much a-wing; 

 it is rather pert and noisy, like a Shrike's. Like a Shrike, also, in extended 

 course it dives with closed wings, then opens suddenly and flutters up with 

 rapid strokes to regain the former level, — describing thus successive loops 

 of flight. 



The Pygmy Owl "sings" in a small hollow voice, klook - klook - klook 

 look look look look look look, with an effect for tempo something like that 

 produced by the accelerating rebound of a tiny wooden mallet, struck on 

 resonant wood, in quality something between this and the pectoral quaver 

 of the Screech Owl. To our great coarse ears it is, of course, ridiculously 

 inoffensive, but how like the knell of doom it must sound to a trembling 

 Chickadee! 



Even more characteristic of the bird's presence in the forest is a weird, 

 tolling note, ventriloquial, elusive, and most marvelously penetrating. 

 At some distance it meets the ear as a mellow rounded took or tooook, for 

 it must not be conceived too short, nor yet as other than a monosyllable. 

 At close quarters, however, one detects a premonitory sibillation, and at 

 the end a gurgling, muffled ring. The whole becomes then (si)poolk(ngh), 

 and it may be best imitated by a whistle which is conscientiously modified 

 by attendant grimaces. Nor is it easy to exaggerate the penetrating 

 character of this sound. When I first ran it down, I left camp with expec- 

 tation of encountering its author somewhere within a hundred yards. I 

 followed the siren call through a fringe of woods, across a bit of prairie, 

 through a swamp, over a wooded hill, and into the depths of the forest 

 beyond, where, at the summit of a grim fir tree, at a height of two hundred 

 feet, and at a distance from camp of more than one mile, I made out the 

 instigator of the pleasant exercise. Nor had I been deceived by the 

 pixie's flitting, for upon returning to camp, the notes were presently just 

 as conspicuous as they had been at the outset; and subsequent study 

 proved that that Owl was confined in his range to just that particular bit 

 of woods. 



Coming south for the winter of 1912-13 Mr. Brooks amazed us by 



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