The Robins had now finished their evening hymns, the last 
Swamp Sparrows had ceased their low trilling songs, the Red¬ 
wings had all disappeared and a deafening chorus of Leopard 
Frogs, Hylas, and Toads came to our ears from far and near 
along the margin of the shining pathway of water which we 
were following. 
It was very dark when we reached Fairhaven Cliff 
and Bolles began hooting like a Barred Owl. I followed with 
a feeble imitation of the Great-horned Owl which, after a 
few moments and to my infinite surprise, was answered by 
Bubo himself from the tall pines on the west bank of the 
river. We stopped paddling, of course, and I continued the 
conversation in the best Owl language that I could command. 
Bilbo was prompt in his responses and presently appeared 
directly over our heads — a great shadowy bird with broad 
wings and big head, flapping at first, then sailing as 
majestically as an Eagle, finally descending in a series of 
undulations to the low trees on the shore at the Cliff 
landing. More Owl talk and Bubo soon on his way back to 
the pines, evidently sorely puzzled and speedily impelled 
to repeat the flight which he made three times each way, in 
all, passing directly over us each time. We could only see 
him against the sky and lost sight of him the moment he 
came in front of the background of hill or pines. We 
finally left him and kept on to Martha's Point, hoping to 
