10 THE AUDUBON BUA E 
of a spring evening. The brown thrashers and the cardinals ceased singing. 
Far off, a field sparrow chanted its final vesper prayer. A coot splashed 
about in the edge of the lake. An American toad, so my companion said, 
called nearby. The only toads I had ever known were nameless ones in 
my garden, silent as a sphinx. 
Finally there was a soft whir close over our heads and the father 
long-eared flew to the nest. When we moved a bit he left, but soon we 
heard an indescribable long call not far away. An almost continuous soft 
clucking sound came from the same place. This we found later was made 
by the adults snapping their bills together. 
The next day Bert Harwell came to Springfield for an Audubon lecture 
and the following morning he and Mrs. Booney drove to the site, where 
with step-ladder, mirror, and camera they attempted to get some pictures. 
A man is a bit more brash than a woman. For the first time the mother 
was frightened from the nest, and she indicated her annoyance in shrewish 
tones. There were five young owls, a large one sitting on the edge of 
the nest. 
Chines t vee Boney 
Ar. aro Tib.. ee f 
I went with Mrs. Bonney but once more, May 10. We found two gray 
young in nearby trees, half grown, sitting stiff and erect as tenpins. 
Perhaps, in comparison with the amount of time Mrs. Bonney devoted to 
the owls, the scientific data gathered was negligible. No owl was banded, 
none was collected to count the pinfeathers, no’ stomach was examined to 
see just what had been eaten. She and Mrs. Owl had been two well-bred 
ladies getting acquainted, each observing the courtesies, the amenities, and 
the reticences due the situation. In spite of the fact that so many other 
bird-watchers who had heard about the nest came either so often or in 
such numbers that the grass all about the haw tree was trampled flat, 
