Chirps and 
Chatter. 
(221) THE BIRD WORLD. 
Owlets. 
Of all British birds the Owl sits 
apart. There is something so uncanny 
and weird about her—why are Owls al¬ 
ways feminine ?—that for many people 
she has a fascination all her own. Owlets, 
as the baby Owls are called, are per¬ 
haps the most easy of all British birds 
to rear, or such at least has been our 
experience, and no one who is called 
upon to foster one of these curious little 
fluff balls need anticipate failure. 
Nothing in the way of flesh seems to 
come amiss to a young Owl, only they 
like their meals to be regular and plenti¬ 
ful. It does not do, however, to at¬ 
tempt to rear them entirely on butcher’s 
meat, for it is necessary for their 
curiously constituted digestions that as 
they develop they should swallow a cer¬ 
tain amount of feathers, fur, and bones 
of thpir prey. These they throw up in 
the form of pellets, hard little masses 
of refuse, in which the fur or feathers 
may be found tightly compressed round 
the bones which the birds have been 
unable to digest. The habit is, of 
course, well known to naturalists, yet 
not a few young fanciers have been 
startled and alarmed upon first witness¬ 
ing their birds’ contortions while trying 
to throw up and eject a pellet. The 
bird opens his beak and jerks his head 
about in the most ridiculous fashion, 
yet, like his cousin the Hawk, unless he 
be supplied with the food which renders 
this performance necessary, his life is 
likely to be a short one. It follows, 
then, that none should keep Owls unless 
they can see their way to supplying 
them with natural food, such as mice, 
rats, any sort of small birds, or young 
rabbits. Given such food and a roomy 
cage, the birds will thrive and flourish, 
also they will hoot at nights, which ; s 
a little point it is well not to forget, 
for while the lover of Nature may pause 
a moment on a dark, still night to listen 
with intense satisfaction to the Owl that 
moment engaged in complaining to the 
moon, the next-door neighbour of the 
town fancier may describe the “ ’orrid 
’ooting ” as worse than caterwauling. 
Next-door neighbours are so unsym¬ 
pathetic. 
Sport and the Weather. 
Amongst those who have reason to 
complain about the vagaries of the past 
summer are lovers of the gun. Part¬ 
ridges and Pheasants have suffered 
severely, and birds are scarce. It is 
said that an average season is quite out 
of the question, the cold and wet having 
killed off so many young birds at the 
end of June. Nearly everywhere the 
keepers tell the same tale of flooded nests 
and drowned young ones, and pairs of 
barren birds are to be seen on all sides. 
In several places “ packs ” of Partridges 
consisting solely of old birds have been 
seen—a very rare sight, and one of the 
worst possible omens as regards the possi¬ 
bilities of sport. Wild Pheasants have 
done even worse than Partridges, a wet 
and cold season always spelling disaster 
for the broods hatched in the woods and 
hedges. At the best of times the hen 
Pheasant is a poor mother, but in a 
season like we have had this summer her 
domestic efforts are invariably a com¬ 
plete failure. 
The Wounded Pigeon. 
Speaking at a temperance gathering at 
Netley of the growth of the instinct of 
rescue in recent years, more particularly 
in reference to birds and animals, the 
Archdeacon of London told a pretty 
little story of a former Archdeacon. He 
was coming out of the House o( 
Commons when he saw one of the 
Pigeons that made their abode round it 
had been run over, probably by a cab, 
and was lying in the road. He called 
the attention of a policeman to the 
almost lifeless bird, and asked him what 
was best to be done. “ Best kill it,” 
replied the policeman. “ But I cannot 
do that,” said the Archdeacon, and 
picking up the injured bird he put it 
beneath the breast of his coat and took 
it home. There he managed to set a 
broken bone, which was the chief in¬ 
jury ; and after tending the Pigeon care¬ 
fully for two months he had the pleasure 
of seeing the bird, restored to its former 
condition, fly joyously away one day to 
join its comrades on the House of 
Commons roof. 
