The Arizona Elf Owl 
oologist will pack a ladder for weary miles over the desert. For this he 
will invade the haunts of the “side-winder” and the Gila monster. For 
this he will wrestle with tediously unending creosote and insinuating cat’s 
claw. For this he will brave the cruel cholla, which looses its bunched 
lances at a touch, or pierces the feet of the passerby. For this he will 
Taken in Arizona Photo by the Author 
WHERE THE ELF OWL NESTS 
ascend rickety heights of sahuaro; if need be, hug its spiny column to meet 
a flaw of wind or to gain an objective just six inches higher. (The thorns 
can be removed from the knees and arms at leisure over the camp fire.) 
For this he enlarges ancient wounds in the venerable cactus, plying his 
hatchet in the slithery substance of the “giant’s” flesh, until his arms are 
ready to drop off from weariness. And all that he may at last come upon 
a bundle of feathers at the bottom of one of the holes. 
The bundle is elongated, supine, comfortable to the hand, all but 
non-resistant. Draw it forth, the drowsy little elf! Claws it has, and 
they clutch convulsively, but they are scarcely strong enough to hurt you. 
Eyes it has,—yellow, saucer eyes, that might be wrathy if only the elfkin 
would wake up. Soft, weathered browns and streaky whites with touches 
of fawn make up a costume as proper as that of Scops or Bubo; but who 
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