174 
THE CONDOR 
Vol. XVII 
corner of S ’s wheat, near the first dead furrow,” a location that sounded 
sufficiently definite until we drove over to investigate. Five people in all proved 
the wisdom of the owl’s selection of a nesting site. It was the first nest the 
farmer had ever heard of in the wheat, but its proximity to the lane of the dead 
furrow made it seem possible, and as the wheat had not attained its full growth 
when the nest was reported to have two eggs — on June 19 — the close level-topped 
stand of grain had risen around the nest with its increasing need for protection. 
An old owl who was presumably interested in the nest was seen hunting over the 
brushy shore flats at high noon, before there were impatient young to call for 
such an un-owl-like proceeding; and when the men were tramping the dead fur- 
row at sundown, a flammeus hunting over the undulations of the grassy prairie 
turned back and flying in, lit on the ground and stood solemnly gazing at the 
exploring party. 
Later in the season (July 8 and 9, 1912), between Stump Lake and Devil’s 
Lake, we saw a number of Short-eared Owls flying about freely in the daytime. 
A dark-colored young one flying low over the ground in the strong morning light 
was apparently doing its own hunting, but a family of grown young in another 
place was sitting around on stone piles as if waiting to be fed. One of the old 
light-colored hunters whom we saw beating over the ground, as we watched made 
a suggestive pounce, stretching forward drolly as if sliding to a base. Another 
flammeus on whose premises we ate a camp supper perched spectacularly on top 
of a telephone pole watching us for some time, but finally flew out over the fields 
to get its own supper. 
While the owls were easily recognized at quite a distance, when pin-heads in 
the big prairie landscape they had to be distinguished from Marsh Hawks; for, 
while a few families of owls might be seen in a twenty-mile drive across the prai- 
rie, Marsh Hawks were seen so frequently that it seemed as if their territories 
must sometimes overlap. 
While Asio and Circus were landscape features, two of the largest, most 
characteristic, and perhaps generally distributed birds of the prairie region, the 
Prairie Hen and Sharp-tailed Grouse, were rarely seen unless by some lucky acci- 
dent they were flushed from cover — a sore disappointment to me, for the thought 
of being among them had been one of the strongest allurements to my journey to 
North Dakota. 
What bird student, out of their range, has not looked upon the pictures and 
museum groups of Prairie Hen dances with rapt wonder and dreamed fondly of 
witnessing them some day for himself? We were too late for the dances in North 
Dakota, but on our way north had one memorable experience in Minnesota. 
There are the Prairie Hens crowing ! ’ ’ the men would interrupt themselves 
to exclaim over what seemed to my unaccustomed ears only faint squeaky sounds 
and a hint of low booming. As the birds are at their best in the early morning, 
we were called at 4 :30 with an urgent, 4 ‘ The Prairie Hens are crowing now ! ’ ’ 
and were soon driving between meadows white with dew, drinking in the cold 
invigorating air, mountain air compared with what we had escaped from. Keep- 
ing our field glasses ready to sweep every plowed field that came in sight and 
our ears strained for the low occasional booming, we turned corner after corner 
in the direction of the sound till suddenly the horses were reined in with the 
exclamation, “There are two liens!” 
The female was walking about demurely, but the male — was there ever such 
a droll figure? As I gazed spellbound, the cocks of the National Museum group 
rose before me. It was their exact pose — body hanging head down, tail cocked 
