AN OWL OF THE NORTH 



By C. WILLIAM BEEBE 



§F1 T is midwinter, and 

 from the northland a 

 blizzard of icy winds 

 and swirling snow 

 crystals is sweeping 

 with fury southward 

 overwoodsand 

 fields. We sit in our 

 warm room before the crackling log 

 fire and listen to the shriek of the gale 

 and wonder how it fares with the little 

 bundles of feathers huddled among the 

 cedar branches. 



We picture in our minds all the wild 

 kindred sheltered from the raging 

 storm ; the gray squirrels rocking in 

 their lofty nests of leaves ; the chip- 

 munks snug underground ; the screech 

 owls deep in the hollow apple trees, all 

 warm and dry. 



But there are those for whom the 

 blizzard has no terrors. Far to the 

 north on some barren waste of Labra- 

 dor where the gale first surges in from 

 the sea, gathering strength as it comes, 

 a great white owl flaps upward and on 

 broad pinions, white as the driving 

 flakes, sweeps southward with the 

 storm. Now over ice-bound river or 

 lake, or rushing past a myriad dark 

 spires of spruce, then hovering won- 

 deringly over a multitude of lights 

 from the streets of some city, the 

 strong, arctic bird forges southward, 

 until one night, if we only knew, we 

 might open our window, and looking 

 upward see two great yellow orbs shin- 

 ing down at us ; apparently hanging in 

 space, the body and wings of the owl 

 in snow-white plumage, lost amidst the 

 flakes. We thrill in admiration at the 



grand bird, so fearless of the raging 

 elements. 



Only the coldest, fiercest storms will 

 tempt him from the North and then, 

 not because he fears snow or cold but 

 in order to keep in reach of the snow- 

 birds, which form his food. Thus he 

 seeks for places where a less severe 

 cold encourages small birds to be 

 abroad, or where the snow's crust is 

 less icy, through which the field mice 

 may bore their tunnels and run hither 

 and thither in the moonlight, pulling 

 down the weeds and cracking their 

 frames of ice. Heedless of passing 

 clouds, these little rodents scamper 

 about, until a darker, swifter, shadow- 

 passes, and the feathered talons of the 

 snowy owl close over the tiny, shiver- 

 ing bundle of fur. 



Occasionally after such a storm, one 

 may come across this owl in some 

 snowy field, hunting in broad daylight, 

 and that must go down as a red-letter 

 day, one to be remembered for years. 



What would one not give to know of 

 his adventures since he left the far 

 North! What stories he could tell of 

 hunts for the ptarmigan, — those arctic 

 grouse, clad in plumage as white as his 

 own ; or the little kit foxes, or the seals 

 and polar bears, playing the great game 

 of life and death among the grinding 

 icebergs. 



His visit to us is a short one. Comes 

 the first hint of thaw and he has van- 

 ished like a melting snowflake, back to 

 his home and his mate. There, in a 

 hollow in the half-frozen Iceland moss- 

 in February, as many as ten fuzzy little 

 snowy owlets may grow up in one nest, 

 — all as hardy and beautiful and brave 

 as their great, fierce' eyed parents. 



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