I was in the woods one night at twilight, sitting on a stump, with my face hidden in my hands, thinking. I had written about everything I knew for the magazines, and my work was still in demand, but, seemingly, there were no new animals.

While I was thinking, I was knocked senseless by a blow on the head. When I came to, there was nothing in sight, and no tracks on the smooth mould around me. Only the blood which streamed down my face convinced me that I was not suffering from an hallucination.

The doctor who sewed up my head gave me a very queer look when I told him how it had happened, and then tapped his forehead suggestively. I suppose he was endeavouring to comprehend the situation and was trying to stimulate the place in which the phrenologists have located the faculty of comprehension.

After my head got well, I went out and sat on the stump once more, determined to pursue my investigations at whatever cost. Just as I expected, I was hit again, only this time not quite so hard. I chased around madly through the underbrush, but, as before, I saw nothing.

That night, when I got up to put another bandage on my aching dome of thought, an idea struck me. “You blithering idiot,” said my inner consciousness, “it was an Owl that hit you on the head!”

Of course it was—what else should it be? I went to sleep much reassured, and in the morning I determined to prove myself right.

It must have been my head that attracted Hoot-Mon. Owls live on Weasels, Rabbits, Squirrels, and Hares. At dusk I took my grandmother’s old Mink muff, tied a long string to it, and went out to the stump. I poised the muff airily upon the undergrowth and retired to a safe distance. Then I imitated the Owl’s song and twitched the muff a bit.

A great white shape swooped down and took up the muff in its talons, tearing at it until the interior fell out. Greedily, the Owl ate of this, then immediately coughed and disgorged the whole thing. I laughed wickedly. “Hoot-Mon, my dear old friend,” said I to myself, “that is the time you muffed it.” I was fully revenged for his attack upon me.

I followed him to his nest, which was in a birch tree about three miles from my cabin. I made no attempt to climb to it then, deeming the location of it sufficient work for the time being. His home was there; his watch-tower was a blasted tree which commanded my front door.

A few days later I made the ascent. Very few observers have ever seen an Owl’s nest. This one was not round, but long and narrow, with a great bundle of feathers at one end for a pillow. Hoot-Mon was asleep, lying flat on his back, with a blanket made of Rabbit skins over him, and snoring audibly. In the bottom of the nest was a Hare mattress. I did not disturb him, for he works at night and needs his sleep in the daytime.

An Owl is really a very peculiar beast and one that will amply repay study. His sight and hearing are wonderful, and his eyes are just as good by daylight as by dark, some amateurs to the contrary notwithstanding.

The next time you get hold of a stuffed Owl, part the feathers and closely examine his ears. You will find that they are long, crescent-shaped excavations in his face, coming to a point over his eyes. They are barbed with hairs which act like telephone wires and double and redouble the intensity of every sound. His eyes are set in deeply, so that when he wants to look around, he has to turn his head. He cannot see behind him like a Rabbit, or a Horse without blinders.

An Owl’s stomach is also very peculiar. The alimentary tract is shaped like a wide-mouthed vase, with no intervening crop, as in most Birds. Hoot-Mon packs his food into the flaring top, which is his mouth, and without chewing, crowds it with one foot down through the narrow opening, into the bulb-shaped base. In his stomach is a gland which secretes hydrochloric acid.

With this he digests practically everything but fur and feathers. The facile stomach rolls these into small balls and pushes them out through that same door where in they went.

In fact, you can track an Owl by these little balls of undigested securities. Sometimes they incorporate them into the lining of the nest, but more often build a wall, like the defence of a fort, around their homes. Seeing so much fur, the enemy is not disposed to go any further.

I have often seen an Owl sitting on the lower branch of a tree in the early dusk, and throwing these balls to his children, one at a time, as though they were bean-bags. Once, when I was watching, one little Owl mistook one of them for a Mouse and ate it. The father laughed heartily, knowing that the plaything would soon be returned in the original package.

The white Owls are very scarce, but I saw a great many of them that year. Summer was very late, and they had flown around the Arctic Circle until they got dizzy and had come down to chase each other around the larger meridians. In the Winter, they get their living by fishing. I have often seen a big white Owl, sailing around on a cake of ice which perfectly matched his plumage, taking his ease like any fisherman in a rowboat.

They are very clever with their claws and will bait their hooks with Worms and Frogs which they have caught in the Summer and kept on ice until they were ready to use them. It is a charming sight to see a white Owl bait his hook, toss his line overboard, and wait, with sublime patience, until there is a nibble at the other end. You can almost hear his wild eerie laughter as he draws in his catch and eats it, bones and all, without stopping to cook it.

One Winter when some fishermen spilled a cargo of dead Fish overboard, the beach was so thick with white Owls that you could not see the sand. They used nets and gathered in the Fish by wholesale, though sometimes an Owl would sail out over the water like a Seagull, catch up a Fish in his claws, and come back, laughing, amidst the plaudits of his companions who were waiting in a row upon the shore. No other observer has seen this on so large a scale as I have, according to the books, but I have a photograph of the beach and of one of the Owls, which I shall be glad to show to the doubting ones.

Once, while I was shooting Ducks, I had a strange experience. My decoy was a lady Duck with a string tied around her leg. I had fastened the other end to my boat anchor to restrain her natural wandering propensities. She was sailing around on the cold water, protesting at her unhappy plight, when a big white Owl heard her profane remarks.

He sat on a dead branch and giggled for a while, then began to make fun of her. At this her composure vanished and she began to sob, so he rushed to her, on his big, perfectly silent wings, lifted her up, gently and tenderly, with one great claw, poising her body meanwhile against his wing, and with the file on the inside of his other leg, deliberately filed away my string and gave her her freedom.

I thought she deserved it, so I said nothing, and the last I saw of them, they were walking down the beach together, wing to wing, coquetting like lovers on a moonlight night. I never shot any more Ducks, and refused, ever afterward, to wear Duck trousers in the Summer time. These garments are really a luxury, being made of canvasback Duck.

In the Winter, the Owls nearly starve, and get so thin that they cannot fly. Their big wings overbalance them, like a craft carrying too much sail, and the wind carries them in every direction. In the Winter, if the wind is right, you can stand on the beach any day and more Owls than you can ever hope to study will blow almost into your arms. They are not good eating, however, for in the early Spring and late Fall they live mainly upon mussels and this makes their bodies too muscular to carve.

They get so hungry in the Winter that they will even eat Cats. In this way I once lost a very pretty black and white pussy to whom I was much attached. A red Squirrel had hidden some walnuts in a little cave near my cabin door, and while he was digging them up, the Cat saw him and began to stalk him, merely by way of amusement. Hoot-Mon swooped down upon poor pussy, and she nearly scratched his eyes out. Both were game, but he finally killed her with a terrific blow on the head, such as he once gave me, and bore her away in triumph to his nest.

I was inconsolable, and with the fine instinct of the animal, Hoot-Mon must have known it. Two weeks afterward I found on my doorstep one morning a small, soft, furry ball. I unrolled it and discovered that it was the complexion of my lost pet, nicely prepared, a necklace made of her delicate teeth, pierced and strung on a fine wire, with a locket made of her claws. It was very pretty and touching. I would have been glad to have had one of her eyes, for a cat’s-eye scarf-pin, but that was too much to expect. I had long known that Owls make an ointment of Cats’ eyes, with which they rub their own. It is this that enables them to see in the dark.

Once I had a very peculiar adventure. I had caught a Rat in my cabin and had buried the body just outside, in some sand. In the night I was awakened by a prolonged clucking and a long drawn whoo-oo-oo, the characteristic hunting note of the Owl. Fortunately it was bright moonlight.

I looked out of my window and there was Hoot-Mon, a big white furry thing, clucking like a Hen and scratching furiously in the sand, which rose in a cloud around him and nearly obscured him from my scientific gaze. My quick, active mind immediately guessed that he was excavating for the Rat, and when the dust subsided, I saw that I was right. He took his prize and hurried away, still clucking. Two weeks later, he brought me the ball representing the inedible portions, but this I threw away, having no sentimental attachment for the Rat.

It is interesting to see Owls eat. When they are very hungry, they are savage about their food and tear it apart like the other wild things, but when their eagerness is partially satisfied, they are as dainty about it as any lady. Once I gave Hoot-Mon a bit of nicely broiled beefsteak and he received it with unmistakable notes of pleasure in his clucking.

With the file which Nature has provided on the inner side of his right leg, he cut it into small, neat morsels and ate it with his left foot as though it were a fork. Afterward he came and wiped his beak upon my handkerchief. He had evidently enjoyed the meal very much and for some days he hung about my camp-fire, watching eagerly for more.

The following week he flew into my presence with a long stake to which a link or two of chain was still attached. I recognised it as the peg to which a neighbour’s Cow was fastened in a distant pasture. He had filed off the chain, dug up the peg, and brought me the beef stake in the hope that I would broil it for him. With gestures I made him understand that, even so, it would not be edible, and he flew away, broken-hearted.

An Owl moves so silently that you can never see him come. Where other Birds have feathers he has hair, and this makes no noise when he moves. You can hear the rustle of a Duck’s wings, the flutter of a Sparrow or a Lark, and the wind fairly screams through the Eagle’s pinions when you spend a dollar, but the breeze makes no more noise blowing through an Owl’s wings than it does in passing over your own head.

Owls are as fond of Rats as Chinamen are. If you can only catch an Owl you will need no Rat-trap, for he will clear the premises of the vermin in no time. I caught Bre’r Hush-wing once when I was a boy and put him into our oat bin. When I went to get him again he was dead from indigestion. I dissected him and found the heads of eighteen Rats in his stomach. The skins of twenty-three more were tacked up around the oat bin with their own claws.

I have devoted the preliminary part of this paper to the general nature and habits of the Owl in order that my readers may fully understand what is to follow. I do not claim that my Owl was more brilliant than the Owls of my fellow Unnaturalists, but only that I had superior opportunities to study. When a Little Brother of the Woods sees anything that I have missed, I do not call him a liar, and I expect others to pay the same courtesy to me.

I became so interested in Owls that I determined to spend the Winter in my cabin. The Snowy Owl is abroad only in Winter—in Summer he is grey. Nature changes his flannels for him to make him feel safer. “Death loves a shining mark.”

For two weeks and more I went to town every day, and each time brought home all the provisions I could carry. I bought more ink, a ream of paper, and a dozen blue pencils also, in order to anticipate the editors.

It is terrible to live in the woods and see Winter come. The Birds and Squirrels go south at the first sign of changing foliage, but the Rabbits, Weasels, Minks, and other small furred creatures remain. There was no snow until late in December, but it was bitterly cold. When I went out, my breath froze in lateral chunks and I would have to break off the icicles with a hatchet before I could get into my cabin. I had no idea that I breathed so much until I saw it in solid form. I had piled enough wood at my back door to last an army all Winter, and I was very glad indeed that I had it when the first snow fell.

It was an unusually heavy storm for so early in the season, being nearly two feet deep on the level. Nothing was left for the little creatures of the woods but the rose hips, the seeds of the pine cones, and each other. Indeed, it was scanty fare.

That night while I lay in my warm bed, with the fire blazing merrily upon my hearth, I heard the deep, long-drawn, sonorous notes of an Owl.

Something in the sound filled me with foreboding. I felt that a fellow-creature of mine was out in the woods starving. The impulse was strong upon me to get up, put on my snow-shoes, and go out to find him, but my reason battled steadily against it.

The mournful cry was repeated, closer still, and at last I got up, threw open the door wide, and imitated the sound as nearly as possible. Almost immediately, cold, wet wings beat against my face and a big white Owl, more dead than alive, fell full length on the floor of my cabin.

I grasped my brandy bottle and poured a liberal quantity down the Bird’s throat. Presently he sat up, blinked, dragged himself over to the fire, and bowed twice to me, very gravely, as though to say, “Thank you.”

All that night we sat there, watching each other. By nature we were enemies; by force of circumstances we were friends.

Toward morning Hoot-Mon got up and tried to dance, but fell over and went to sleep instead. I fixed him up a bed on the floor and lifted him over on to it. There he stayed, snoring loudly, until the middle of the afternoon. Then he awoke, sighed heavily, yawned, and rubbed his eyes with the backs of his hands.

“Well, Hoot-Mon,” I asked, “do you feel better?”

He came to me, sat down on the table in front of me, and nodded, with something very like a smile upon his face. It could not rightly be characterised as an exact smile, because he was too preternaturally solemn.

I fed him, then opened the door. “Do you want to go now?” I inquired. With a scream of dismay, he flew back into the darkest corner of the cabin and refused to budge. I understood then. He had made up his mind to live with me.

The next day, he found my watch and took it out from under my pillow. He seemed greatly interested in the mechanism and held it to his ear that he might hear it tick. I did not especially mind, for the wild animals had always taken up my time, more or less, but I hid my jewelled repeater and gave him the alarm clock, which did just as well. In time he learned to set the alarm and would laugh like a Parrot when I jumped out of my chair at the unexpected report.

All that Winter, Hoot-Mon and I lived together. Often he got hungry for his own kind of food, and at such times I would put on some red flannel stockings I had made for him, without feet, a red flannel shawl, pinned closely at the throat, and a face mask, also of red flannel, with openings for the eyes and beak and those wonderful ears of which I have spoken before.

He got so that whenever he wished to go hunting, he would search out these articles from the corner of the cabin where they were kept,—never forgetting the safety-pin that fastened the shawl,—bring them to me, and stand very still while I put them on.

He usually had conspicuous success upon these hunting trips. He would come back with three or four beach Rats, two Rabbits, the body of a belated Squirrel who had not yet gone south, and more Weasels and Muskrats that a person could count without more knowledge of arithmetic than I had. Hoot-Mon would skin all of these animals, preferably doing the work in the house, and then he would store them in a natural cave of ice just beyond the wood-pile.

He gave the skins to me, and I made a quilt of them for my cot. He usually ate his own food raw, but once he dropped a Muskrat into the pot in which I was making an Irish stew, and laughed loud and long at my language when I took it out.

He had many mischievous tricks and would often hide my pens, tip over my ink and track it all over the fair, smooth pages of my observation ledger. At other times, he made himself very useful to me, especially on sweeping day. Strutting around gravely on one leg, Hoot-Mon would sweep the floor first with one great wing and then with the other, pushing the dirt always toward the door. When he had it all in a neat pile and the corners were perfectly clean, he would make a signal to me. I would open the door, and with a great, forward sweep of both wings, Hoot-Mon would brush all the dirt outside, meanwhile saying something that sounded like “shoo!” It was clever of him, but it wearied him greatly and he would always take a long nap afterward, though he never slept on my bed. I was very grateful to him because he was willing to sleep in his own corner, remembering a previous unhappy experience.

That Winter, also, he made me a rag carpet. I had a great many pieces of old worsted garments, some of them being left by my grandmother and others being discarded wearing apparel of my own. I had also an old red blanket which I could not sleep under because there was a large hole in the centre which acted like a chimney and created a draught. Some white cotton cloth was among the pieces, and I gave him two old sheets, with which he was greatly pleased.

First, he tore all the cloth into strips about half an inch wide, fastening these together with a pine needle and some linen thread I gave him, and with his claws and beak rolled it into a ball very similar to those made in his stomach. When he had the rags all torn and sewed together, he began work, and I do not think, in all my career as an Unnaturalist, I have ever seen such wonderful intelligence in an animal.

I can never describe the way he did it, though I watched him for hours, uninterruptedly. With claws and beak and wings he was continually at work, tying knots, twisting, weaving in and out, rolling and turning in every conceivable way. Finally he turned his back to me and would not let me see what he was doing.

Respecting his wish for secrecy, I paid no further attention to him then, but the next time he went hunting I hunted for his work. I did not find it, but when he came back, he knew instantly what I had been doing and pecked my face so severely that the blood came. He also opened up the old wound on my head. Needless to say, I did not offend him in that way again.

He worked nights, after that, while I slept. Many a time I have wakened and seen poor, faithful Hoot-Mon sitting by the fire, patiently toiling at his self-appointed task.

On the morning of my birthday, he presented me with a wonderful rug, a yard wide and long enough to go across the cabin directly in front of my bed. The background was red and black and in the centre, entirely in white, was an enormous Owl with outstretched wings—his own portrait to the life!

It was marvellous that he should do it with only the primitive implements with which Nature had provided him, and I praised him early and often. When I stroked him and patted his head, he would strut around with his head in the air, purring and clucking.

This story may seem almost incredible, but I have the rug and a photograph of the Owl that did it. These things will be on exhibition at the time and place printed in the catalogue in the appendix. Both my publishers and myself will be glad to have all the doubting ones investigate. The entire “H” exhibit will be distinguished by the green flag of Ireland, because the things came from the “owld” country.

Hoot-Mon was very much interested in my hat and used to kick it around the cabin and play with it as a Kitten plays with a ball of yarn. I determined to make him one of his own and cut out a paper pattern, fitting it together with pins. I made one of the cocked hats worn by Colonial soldiers, and put a gay feather in the top. The result was very pleasing, to me, at least, and all went well until I attempted to put it on Hoot-Mon’s head.

He snorted loudly, clawed, kicked, and spluttered like an angry Hen. His eyes glared so fiercely that I was afraid of him and ran outdoors, cold as it was, without hat or coat. I stayed until his wrath had somewhat subsided, then cautiously ventured back. He had burned the offending hat in the open fire and the ashes of it lay upon the hearth. He sat on his perch in the corner, wrapped in impenetrable gloom through which his eyes burned like live coals.

It was not until the next day that I learned why he had been so mortally offended, and I hit upon the truth only by accident. I had unfortunately selected foolscap paper for the pattern. I had legal cap in the house and could have made him a lawyer’s bonnet just as well as not, if I had only thought of it.

Strangely enough, Hoot-Mon and I never had any well defined method of communication, though we lived together in intimate association for so long.

I tried him with the deaf-and-dumb alphabet, but he paid no attention to it. I wrote out the various things I wished to say to him and offered him the slips of paper, but he did not eat them or try to read them, and in memory of the insult I once offered him, I presume, he threw the slips into the fire as fast as I could write them. He had no ears that he could wig-wag signals with, and his own vocabulary was confined to two or three syllables, the phrasing and intonation of which varied scarcely at all.

He presented a strange bundle of contradictions, for he was slow witted at times, yet did not understand English, and too quick to jump at conclusions at others, yet the United States language passed him by unharmed. He ate Frogs but did not understand French, sausage and beer, without knowing German, and though he roosted by preference in the attic, he did not know Greek. He was very fond of oatmeal, but he had not the faintest comprehension of Scotch, though I caught him once, with my spectacles on, poring over a book of Scotch dialect which I had in my library. He burned the book afterward, which I did not in the least regret—I had meditated doing it for some time.

I tried him with phrases from every known tongue, but they all seemed alike to him. He did not have a speaking acquaintance with a single modern language, so far as I was able to discover. Very possibly he understood them all, but did not wish to let people know the extent of his knowledge. Perhaps it is his monumental silence which has given him his well deserved reputation for wisdom. At any rate, it contains a hint worth passing on, for there is a great deal of trouble in this world which is not caused by people keeping their mouths shut.

So Hoot-Mon and I lived through the most terrible Winter ever known in that latitude. The unaccustomed warmth of the cabin made him moult while the snow was yet deep upon the ground. He ate the feathers, afterward disgorging them in the usual ball when he had enough to make it worth the trouble. I have all of these little balls now, put away with my most treasured possessions.

He was a pitiful sight when all of his feathers were gone, and he caught cold. His cough distressed me greatly and his spirits drooped perceptibly. He had chills at regular intervals and his poor body was all covered with goose flesh. He wore his shawl, pinned closely at the throat with a safety-pin, until the feathers began to sprout again. While his head was moulting, he also wore his face mask.

Presently, however, Nature resumed business at the old stand and his body was covered with grey down. He looked like an Angora Cat at this stage. I examined the growth minutely with a magnifying-glass and was surprised to find that each feather grew up from a single stalk, like a plant, and sent out numerous branches which were closely interwoven with the branches from the stalk next to it. This is why an Owl’s wings make no sound; the wind passes under these branched feathers and the noise is smothered. You cannot hear the wind blow if you have a pillow over your head.

At last the backbone of Winter broke with a loud crash and the Chinook wind blew in from the south, laden with warm rain. The songs of Robins and Bluebirds were in the breath of it, though the snow was yet deep upon the ground, and my dooryard was filled with hungry Birds.

“Who would not give a Winter seed for a Summer song?”

I went out one day, with my shovel, and Hoot-Mon followed me, warmly wrapped in his shawl. I chose the lofty stump that was his watch-tower and began to shovel a clear space. He sat on top of it, well out of reach of draughts, and watched me. I intended to keep a free lunch set out here for the Birds.

Round and round I shovelled, keeping always in a circle. Hoot-Mon never took his eyes off me—his devotion was absolutely pathetic. When I had finished, I galloped around the stump a few times to get warm, as it was still bitterly cold.

I began to get dizzy, but I went on faster and faster, for the blood was singing in my pulses and it was good to be alive. I was stopped in my mad rush by the most astounding thing that could have happened.

Hoot-Mon’s head, bleeding profusely, and with the eyes staring from their sockets, fell at my feet. On the stump, still clad in the shawl, was his lifeless body.

I was stunned, and it was more than an hour before I saw how it had happened. It was my own fault; no one but myself was to blame. An Owl will turn his head, but never his body, and Hoot-Mon had followed me around the stump with his fond eyes until he had wrung his own neck.

It was too terrible, and I am not ashamed to say that a man’s salt tears bedewed the downy body of my pet as I lowered him into his grave. I made him a shroud of my only remaining sheet and covered him with my last pillow slip. I did not begrudge them to him in the least, and I still have his red flannel shawl. This pathetic relic will be found by the reader in its proper place in the exhibit.

The shocking occurrence saddened me so much that I gave up my study of Unnatural History and returned to the city, where I speedily found some honest employment which paid me fairly well.

At times, the voices of the wilderness call me, but I dare not go back, lest the old magic of the woods take my spirit into slavery again.

Sometimes, at night, I start from my sleep, thinking that poor Hoot-Mon’s bleeding head is again at my feet. It is a consolation, however, to know that he did not suffer any more than a spring broiler which is prepared for the market, and, after all, it may have been a kinder fate than the one which was waiting for him somewhere in the gloom of the tall pines, for the end of a wild animal is always a tragedy.