228 . ~ THE CONDOR rts Vol. XXI 
What was that noise below? It turned its head to look over its shoulder, 
and with face forward, pressed on hard with its eyes. Seeing nothing there it 
looked back over the other shoulder in the same intense, strained manner. Still 
discovering nothing it gave a little yawn. But when some Waxwings whistled 
softly near by and a Mallard quacked in passing, it quickly looked up. Then 
perhaps missing its family, it gave the weak ery of a young bird, which like 
that of the Ferruginous Rough-legs, was absurdly out of keeping with its size 
but went well with the shortness of its ears. When I answered in my best 
Owlese, it cocked its head drolly on one side. That would bear looking into. 
Again worming its big head down and around, its facial disk setting its face 
quite apart from its neck, it studied me intently, and not liking what it saw, 
with a queer little qua, qua, qua flew off. Several times more it lit and flew, 
and I followed. When it crossed a Kingbird’s beat, that self-appointed guardi- 
an of the peace flew down at it—once. Why he stopped at that, I was at a loss 
to imagine, unless so young to his trade that the sight of the big-eyed, big head 
raised upon him at close quarters was a deterrent. His kingly courage re- 
turned when the Owl moved, however, and he flew down and snapped his bill 
over it. When the young Long-ear lit next, it looked so comfortable on its 
shady branch that I did not want to disturb it, so, after listening to the call of 
a Catbird, the song of a Yellow Warbler, and—out of season though it was— 
the full love song of an Oriole—I went back down the lake toward home. 
The next day I had a still greater surprise. Contrary to my usual custom 
of keeping caretully secreted in the woods above the water, I had gone down 
on the short strip of beach where the Spotted Sandpipers usually ran up and 
down, and happening to glance up in the sky saw a compact flock of large 
white forms advancing. Gulls? No! On they came, with the slow, heavy, 
stately flight of White Pelicans. As this was before I had seen them at North 
Sweetwater and I had looked for them in vain since the first small squad seen 
on Devil’s Lake in June, I greeted them with eager anticipations. Fourteen 
there were, of the great white airships. They were heading southeast against 
the wind as if coming straight for the one narrow strip of beach that side of the 
lake afforded. And there I stood on it! Alas! Around they turned, flying 
back high across the opposite side of the lake. As I gazed up at them their 
formation characteristically changed from a wedge to a straight line, and then 
to a confused mass without figure. Overcome with disappointment, in the vain 
hope that they might come again, I retreated to the woods. Had I kept out of 
sight before, probably the whole fleet would have lighted on the beach under 
my very eyes. Realizing at last that there was no hope of their return I went 
back to the beach to see if they were still in sight. Looking across the west 
end of the lake, where a threshing machine was building up a straw stack in a 
harvest field, high in the sky I caught sight of a wavering silver thread, and 
through the glass the silvery thread turned into a line of white birds, the line 
forming and reforming till they disappeared in the sky. 
5) 
From the south-east corner of the woods in which stood the hunting lodge, 
late one August afternoon, after a thunderstorm, there was a charming picture 
of the peaceful quiet life of the waterfowl undisturbed by man. As I crept in 
down an old willow-bordered path to the lake and carefully placed my camp- 
stool between screening willow branches, the birds went about their affairs 
a at 
