MY BATTLE WITH A GREAT HORNED OWL. 



F. G. E. BUERGER. 



In SeptemDcr, 1901, business called me 

 down to the Buffalo hills, of Arkansas, the 

 outrunners of the Ozarks, or better, the 

 Boston mountains. I had been led to be- 

 lieve that in the forests I should find deer, 

 turkeys and smaller game, and that in the 

 clear waters of the Buffalo the wily bass 

 were only waiting" for the man with rod and 

 reel. Alas ! the deer had been run out with 

 hounds years ago, and as the result of giant 

 powder the beautiful stream yelded so lit- 

 tle that even the patience of the most ar- 

 dent angler was overtaxed. Some quails and 

 turkeys were reported and occasonaly a dog 

 might jump a rabbit. That was all. The 

 tapping of the yellowhammer was about the 

 only sign of life, a welcome sound that 

 broke the dead silence of the vast forest. 



"Hit's only the varmits that's left." the 

 natives told me. "Rabbits? Why, hit's the 

 owls and red foxes that done away with 

 them." 



In consequence I hung up my Savage 30- 

 30, my other guns and fishing tackle, and 

 with a deep grudge against the foxes and 

 owls, and especially against the 2-legged 

 "varmits," my wife and I, with net and 

 cyanide bottle, rambled, as of old, through 

 the forest and beautiful valleys in search of 

 coleoptera and lepidoptera, a tamer sport 

 that that with rod and gun, but withal 

 equally fascinating and undoubtedly a bet- 

 ter and more satisfactory one. 



St. Valentine's day came and with 

 it the first snow of the season. Who could 

 have stayed home on such a day? 



"Bring me my Valentine," called my 

 wife after me, with a dubious smile on her 

 lips, as I stepped out into the brisk wintry 

 air with my little 16 gauge Syracuse over 

 my shoulder, and Nemo, my beagle pup, 

 at my heels. 



That day the unexpected happened. 

 Scampering along over the snowclad hill- 

 side came bunnie, who had evidently lost 

 his bearings, only to stop at the peremptory 

 "halt" of my gun and to find his way into 

 my alas, too roomy, game pocket. The rab- 

 bit was a measly, dyspeptic looking speci- 

 men, but a rabbit after all ; and when, later 

 in the day, I succeeded in bringing down a 

 chicken hawk that soared high overhead, I 

 felt once more the jov of the hunter, the 

 fascination of sport. The hawk measured 

 4 feet 1 inch from tip to tip, and to-day 

 looks down on us from his high pedestal in 

 our den, much valued by my wife as her 

 "Arkansas valentine." 



Not many hundred yards from our house 

 a rocky bluff arose about 100 feet in height, 



its summit crowned with evergreens and 

 crooked oaks, whose gigantic silhouettes 

 stood out clearly against the sky. The 

 spot was extremely picturesque, and the 

 many crevices in the rock afforded excel- 

 lent hiding and nesting places for bats and 

 owls. The hooting of the latter could be 

 heard a long way in the stillness of the sur- 

 roundings and, judging from the deep, son- 

 orous tone of their voices, I concluded they 

 were of the same large variety that caused 

 the untimely death of Ernest T. Seton's Rag- 

 gylug. I was to find out for myself soon after. 



Snow had fallen all night, the heaviest 

 snow in Arkansas for 17 years. A magnifi- 

 ment siR-ht met our eyes in the morning, 

 and soon we were out with our camera 

 among the white capped rocks and snow 

 bent cedars to get a few pictures of the de- 

 lightful landscape that stretched in all di- 

 rections, glistening and glittering under the 

 cold rays of the winter sun. The afternoon, 

 too, was spent in the same fashion, to 

 make the best of an opportunity so seldom 

 offered under these skies, and it was not 

 until the dying sun glided the tops of the 

 mountains that we reached home, weary 

 from our long and difficult tramp. I was 

 about to take life easy the remainder 

 of the evening, when, like a challenge, there 

 came from the rocky hillside tne deep, 

 long-drawn hooo, hoo, hoo, hooo of the 

 huge bird of darkness. The next minute 

 found me climbing again, that time in the 

 direction of the bluff. While I stood a 

 moment panting and gazing, a nair of great 

 horned owls arose from an overhanging 

 rock and flew up on the crest of the hill. 

 The distance from where I stood was too 

 great to justify a wing shot, but I marked 

 the place where the birds alighted and was 

 about to commence the ascent of the hill, 

 when one of the owls returned and made 

 the highest branch of the dead oak tree, 

 right on top of the precipice, his point of 

 observation. Apparently not larger than a 

 quail, the form of the bird stood out against 

 the wintry sky. In order to get a better 

 range, I cautiously began to advance, but 

 the keen eyes of the owl had esnied the 

 enemy, and I knew that in a moment my 

 prey would be gone. In an instant my gun 

 was at my shoulder, and when the echo of 

 the report rolled back from the hills, I saw 

 with pride and joy the mighty bird hanging 

 lifeless in the branches, only to roll, a 

 moment later, down among the boulders. 



Breathless and excited I reached the 

 top of the cliff, but found that on account 

 of the circuit I had been obliged to make, 



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