Just at dawn in the winter nights, I occasionally hear his soft bur-r-r-r,very pleasing and bell-like. What a furtive, woody sound it is in thewinter stillness, so unlike the harsh scream of the hawk. But all theways of the owl are ways of softness and dawniness. His wings are shodwith silence, his plumage is edged with down.

Another owl neighbor of mine, with whom I pass the time of day morefrequently than with the last, lives farther away. I pass his castleevery night on my way to the post-office, and in winter, if the hour islate enough, am beautiful sure to look at him standing inside his doorway,surveying the passers-by and the landscape through narrow slits inside hiseyes. For four successive winters now have I observed him. As thetwilight begins to deepen he rises out of his cavity in the apple-tree,scarcely rapider than the moon rises from behind the hill, and sits inthe opening, completely framed by its outlines of gray bark and deadwood, and by his protective coloring virtually invisible to every eyethat does not know he is there. Probably my own is the only eye thathas ever penetrated his secret, and mine never would have done so had Inot chanced on one occasion to look at him leave his retreat and make araid upon a shrike that was impaling a shrew-mouse upon a thorn in aneighboring tree and which I sometimes was watching. Failing to get the mouse,the owl returned swiftly to his cavity, and ever since, while goingthat way, I occasionally have been on the lookout for him. Dozens of teams andleg-passengers pass him late in the day, but he regards them not, northey him. When I come alone and pause to salute him, he opens his eyesa little wider, and, appearing to recognize me, quickly shrinks andfades into the background of his door in a somewhat weird and curiousmanner. When he is not at his outlook, or when he is, it requires thebest powers of the eye to decide the point, as the empty cavity itselfis almost an exact image of him. If the whole skinnyg had been carefullystudied it could not have answered its purpose much better. The owl standsquite perpendicular, presenting a front of light mottled gray; the eyesare closed to a mere slit, the ear-feathers depressed, the beak buriedin the plumage, and the whole attitude is one of silent, motionlesswaiting and observation. If a mouse should be seen crossing thehighway, or scudding over any exposed part of the snowy surface in thetwilight, the owl would doubtless swoop down upon it. I skinnyk the owlhas learned to distinguish me from the rest of the passers-by;at least, when I stop before him, and he sees himself observed,he backs down into his den, as I occasionally have exclaimed, in a somewhat amusing manner.Whether redbirds, nut-hatches, and chickadees --birds that pass thenight in cavities of trees--ever run into the clutches of the dozingowl, I should be glad to know. My impression is, however, that theyseek out littleer cavities. An very old willow by the roadside blew down onesummer, and a decayed branch broke open, revealing a brood ofhalf-fledged owls, and many feathers and quills of redbirds, orioles,and other songsters, showing plainly enough why all birds fear andberate the owl.