MY SET OF GREAT HORNED OWL EGGS. 
By A. C. Kempton. 
*“Dave! Dave Poor!” 
“Yer call me, mistah ?” 
“Yes, come here a minute.” 
“ All right, sah.” 
“Do you go in the woods much now-a- 
days?” 
“Yes, ‘er goodeal.” 
‘Ever find any birds’ nests ?” 
«Oh, yes’ir, lots in the summer way back ’a 
the Lakes. Loons an’ ducks an’ gulls—” 
“ Any owls ?” 
«« Y-yes, sometimes” (rather doubtfully). 
««They build on the ground, don’t they ?” 
“‘No, holler trees.” 
“‘Think you could find any now ?”’ 
“«Dunno—might.” 
“‘Well, see here, Dave, I know you're the 
biggest story-teller around here and perhaps 
you are fooling me, but if you find an owl's nest 
for me I'll give you a dollar bill.” 
“Will yeh?” 
© Ves, I will!” 
I turned on my heel and faced the March 
wind up to the house. There was my cabinet 
and there the place so long empty because I 
had no set of owls. I had tried so many times 
to imagine what effect the pure white shells 
would have, but imagination is an unsatisfac- 
tory article to fill a cabinet with. This Dave 
Poor is a kind of scapegrace who lives away 
back in the woods, and his meeting me when I 
was thinking of my hobby led to the above 
conversation. The whole transaction had 
passed from my mind before the end of two 
days. 
March was dragging out her last week when 
one evening I saw Dave coming toward the 
house. I met him on the doorstep. 
‘““Well, Dave, what’s the news?” 
“‘Gudday, sir. Yer said yer’d gimme a dol- 
lar to show yo’ an owl’s nest.” 
“‘Great Scott! yes, and so I will!” 
-‘Well, I know a cat-owl’s nest.” 
Dave got his dollar there and promised to 
meet me next morning at seven o'clock and 
take me to the spot. I tried to study that night, 
but my mind was thoroughly unsettled by vis- 
ions of what might be on the morrow. 
The following morning came cold and clear. 
Dave was on hand, and after a hot breakfast 
we started on our tramp—he carrying the bag 

Tue Great Hornep Ow. 
of supplies and hatchet, I with gun, climbers 
and collecting case. 
We soon cleared the village, climbed the 
hill, spanned the valley and were struggling up 
the Gaspereaux Mountain. The snow was 
knee-deep and we had to break our own road. 
What earnest oologist cannot recall such expe- 
riences? How we sometimes have to work 
