their outer show of calmness and stolidity. They do not
scour the limbs and trees like the warblers, but, perched upon the
middle branches, wait, like true hunters, for the game to come along.
There is often a very audible snap of the beak as they seize their
prey.

The wood pewee, the prevailing species in this locality, arrests your
attention by his sweet, pathetic cry. There is room for it also in the
deep woods, as well as for the more prolonged and elevated strains.

Its relative, the phoebe-bird, builds an exquisite nest of moss on the
side of some shelving cliff or overhanging rock. The other day,
passing by a ledge, near the top of a mountain in a singularly
desolate locality, my eye rested upon one of these structures, looking
precisely as if it grew there, so in keeping was it with the mossy
character of the rock, and I have had a growing affection for the bird
ever since. The rock seemed to love the nest and claim it as its own.
I said, what a lesson in architecture is here! Here is a house that
was built, but with such loving care and such beautiful adaptation of
the means to the end, that it looks like a product of nature. The same
wise economy is noticeable in the nests of all birds. No bird could
paint its house white or red, or add aught for show.

At one point in the grayest, most shaggy part of the woods, I come
suddenly upon a brood of screech owls, full grown, sitting together
upon a dry, moss-draped limb, but a few feet from the ground. I pause
within four or five yards of them and am looking about me, when my eye
lights upon these, gray, motionless figures. They sit perfectly
upright, some with their backs and some with their breasts toward me,
but every head turned squarely in my direction. Their eyes are closed
to a mere black line; though this crack they are watching me,
evidently thinking themselves unobserved. The spectacle is weird and
grotesque. It is a new effect, the night side of the woods by
daylight. After observing them a moment I take a single step toward
them, when, quick as thought, their eyes fly wide open, their attitude
is changed, they bend, some this way, some that, and, instinct with
life and motion, stare wildly about them. Another step, and they all
take flight but one, which stoops low on the branch, and with the look
of a frightened cat regards me for a few seconds over its shoulder.
They fly swiftly and softly, and disperse through the trees. I shoot
one, which is of