ful
transformation comes over him. He stiffens, draws himself as high as
possible, and compresses his feathers until he seems naught but the
slender, broken stump of some bough,--ragged topped (thanks to his
"horns"), gray and lichened. It is little short of a miracle how this
spluttering, saucer-eyed, feathered cat can melt away into woody fibre
before our very eyes.

We quickly understand why in the daytime the little owl is so anxious to
hide his form from public view. Although he can see well enough to fly and
to perch, yet the bright sunlight on the snow is too dazzling to permit of
swift and sure action. All the birds of the winter woods seem to know this
and instantly take advantage of it. Sparrows, chickadees, and woodpeckers
go nearly wild with excitement when they discover the little owl, hovering
about him and occasionally making darts almost in his very face. We can
well believe that as the sun sets, after an afternoon of such excitement,
they flee in terror, selecting for that night's perch the densest tangle
of sweetbrier to be found.

One hollow tree may yield a little gray owl, while from the next we may
draw a red one; and the odd thing about this is that this difference in
colour does not depend upon age, sex, or season, and no ornithologist can
say why it occurs. What can these little fellows find to feed upon these
cold nights, when the birds seek the most hidden and sheltered retreats?
We might murder the next owl we come across; but would any fact we might
discover in his poor stomach repay us for the thought of having needlessly
cut short his life, with its pleasures and spring courtships, and the
delight he will take in the half a dozen pearls over which he will soon
watch?

A much better way is to examine the ground around his favourite roosting
place, where we will find many pellets of fur and bones, with now and then
a tiny skull. These tell the tale, and if at dusk we watch closely, we may
see the screech owl look out of his door, stretch every limb, purr his
shivering song, and silently launch out over the fields, a feathery,
shadowy death to all small mice who scamper too far from their snow
tunnels.

When you feel like making a new and charming acquaintance, take your way
to a dense clump of snow-laden cedars, and look carefully over their
trunks. If you are lucky you will spy a tiny gray form huddled close to
the sheltered side of the bark, and if you are careful you may approach
and