The hoot of the barred owl can scarcely be distinguished from that of
our large horned owl, but he has a great many calls and sounds that other
owls do not have. These owls are often seen about barns, though they
seldom do damage to poultry, preferring mice and rats if they can be had.
From February to April they lay from four to six eggs in a hollow tree
in the deep woods, and are seldom found elsewhere except at night. The old
owls will undoubtedly tear the food in pieces for the young if necessary;
but the habit of eating only mice and other small animals is so firmly
fixed that, as appears in the story, Jonah never learned to eat pieces of
meat that were too large for him to swallow whole.
Chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee-deeh chick-a-dee-dee-dee-dee-dee! Phe-e-bee!
phe-e-bee! Rat-tat, tat-tat-ta-ta-to-ta! Shirr-r-r-r-r-rp-boom-snap-snap!"
So it has gone all this February morning in the deep woods along the Skunk
River bottom.
From a cloudless sky the sun has been shining with unwonted warmth, and
the heart of nature stirs to its influence. The ice in the river is
cracking, and as the long seams open, it breaks with a loud report. The
sap starting in the maple trees causes endless popping and snapping in
various keys, and the querulous red squirrels, for want of something
better to do, sit on limbs here and there and scold one another. The old
woodpeckers have slipped from their hiding places and are tuning up on
every old, dry hollow tree, trying to find the most musical, and the
attentive listener may hear rolling up the river the regular, muffled drum
of the last partridge in the country. The snow is rapidly melting and
running away in muddy little streams in every direction.
All day and all night this went on, the influence of spring was in the
air. That very night two large barred owls decided that it was time to
begin housekeeping; so they cleaned out an old snag that stood on the edge
of the river and lined it with sufficient down to keep their eggs warm.
The next morning was bright. The, rattling of wagons and the cackling of
chickens could be heard for miles, while the cheerful voice of every
farmer could be heard by all his neighbors.
Such is spring in this locality. It had been a dreary, cold winter, but
this first thaw started everything into life at once. The owls bestirred
themselves early; and before ever the first robin had ventured into the
orchard or the first bluebird had begun to sing his ecstatic song in the
fields, the mother owl was sitting on her eggs. One night the north wind
chilled into silence every rivulet and wrapped the earth in a winding
sheet of white, but such things do not last long this time of year, and
the mother only covered her treasures the more closely and dreamed of the
future.
By the time the first robin had arrived, and the first spring frog had
awakened from his long sleep, stuck his nose above the water, and begun to
pipe his shrill, rasping song, mother owl heard a faint tapping in each of
her eggs. By another day two fluffy bunches of down were in her nest. The
spirit of the wildlings had taught her to time things well, for had this
momentous event occurred a week before, there would have been nothing
suitable to feed the babies. Now there were frogs by the thousand along
the bank of the river and by the edge of every pond. Night after night the
owls would locate a frog by the sound of his voice; then a silent shadow
would pass over the place, and he would be heard no more.
The owl babies grew and thrived. As their dangers were many and real,
one of the old birds must be constantly near them. Even by night, when
other babies were safely asleep, the mother owl must be on the watch to
protect her children from any pilfering coon, who, although he professes
to live on crawfish and frogs, would not hesitate nevertheless to carry a
nestful of young owls away in his stomach.
The little owls were taught to keep quiet, come what would. Their rule
is, "Keep quiet till you can use your wings, and even then unless it
is dark." Owls seldom hoot on a clear night, but they frequently hoot
when it is dark and cloudy, even in the day.
The weather grew rapidly warmer. The woods rang with the joyous songs
of a thousand birds. The wild ducks were lingering for a few more days'
play in the ponds before going to their summer home to take up active
life. Ever and anon could be heard the shrill piping of the sandhill
cranes as they circled among the clouds, or the hoarse honking of a
straggling flock of wild geese as they hurried north, trying to make up
for lost time.
The serene duck hunter of the neighborhood saw these omens, and said,
"The ducks will soon be gone. I must have one more hunt this
spring." This man was an old soldier who could not, or rather would
not, work. He had been with Sherman to the sea, and he had injured his
eyes while fishing contrary to orders on the banks of the Arkansas; so the
government paid his expenses and he sat on the front porch and read his
newspaper and smoked while his wife and children worked the farm. He was
not able to work, but he could walk miles up and down the river in one
day, carrying a gun on his shoulder, and never mind it. Notwithstanding
his eyes were so injured that the government paid for their loss, he was
the quickest shot and the most unerring marksman in the country.
It was just peeping day as he strode across the fields toward Skunk
River. Ordinarily he was not out of bed till the rest of the family had
done up the morning's work. From the meadows far away came the "Boo-lu-do-dodo-do!"
of the prairie cock as he strutted and gobbled around his harem; in the
woods there was a chorus of robins, thrushes, and finches; on every
fencepost the meadowlark whistled his merry tune announcing the
spring-o'-the-year! while from the hedge over the way came the merry call,
"Bob-bob-white!"
The bleating of sheep, the lowing of cattle, the cackle of barnyard
fowl, the clatter of a thousand blackbirds in a near-by tree, and the
cheery voice of the farmer as he went about his morning chores-
all these sounds mingled in the early morning air, and together made up
such an anthem as could not be equaled in the greatest cathedral in the
land.
It would perhaps be unjust to say that all this music fell unheeded on
the hunter's ear, for as he listened he quickened his pace, saying to
himself, "I must hurry or I will fail to get there before sunup and
the ducks will begin to leave the ponds for the fields to feed." But
as he neared the river, his ears were greeted with the contented
"Quack! quack!" of the ducks as they talked together or the
occasional "Qua-ck! quack, quack!" as a duck sent out an
invitation to a neighbor to come and dine with them. Good! He was a little
late but they were still in the ponds. Yes, this was to be a great day for
ducks.
As the hunter neared the first pond, he stooped low, and finally
crawled snakelike among the tall grasses that lined its banks. Steadily
and stealthily he crept on. A flock of ducks flew over him, but instantly
he dropped flat and lay still as a stone, and they, seeing nothing out of
the ordinary, settled into the water right in his path. With a feeling of
satisfaction, he worked his way slowly but surely forward, till he could
peep over the bank. There, in close range, were the unsuspecting ducks,
swimming and feeding in perfect content. Then the hunter's eye, which
never saw amiss, looked along the gun barrel, and a strange and dreadful
fire lighted up his face.
Surely something would warn those beautiful creatures before it was too
late! But no! the hunter, knowing well that he was not suspected, had no
mercy. He took deliberate aim at the ducks farthest away; then a blinding
flash, a crash, and every frightened bird rose on rapid wing, only to
receive a second shot at its most helpless moment. They flew away, but not
all. On the water lay several of their lifeless comrades, while others,
cruelly torn and bleeding, tried in vain to escape the hunter's dog, who,
at the report of the gun, came with a bound from his hiding-place in the
crabapple thicket near by, and rushed into the water after them. One at a
time he soon brought them all to his master, some dead, others dying, some
with broken wing or leg- all helpless, none
pitied. Then the dog and the hunter moved on to the next pond.
So it went all day. Yet this man hunted only for sport and scorned
those who kill for the money there might be in it. About ten o'clock he
happened to pass the owl's nest, and spied the mother sitting in a near-by
tree. He would not have shot a small bird, but this luckless owl was large
enough to be worthy of his skill, so he raised his gun and fired. The owl,
wounded and knocked from her perch, managed to flap feebly away among the
trees. Muttering an oath about his luck, and adding, brutally, "It's
got a good dose of lead pills anyway," our hunter went on, soon
forgetting the incident.
The poor bird was sadly torn and suffering, but all her mother heart
and mother wit went out to her babies. As soon as she was sure that the
hunter was gone, she made her painful way back to see what had become of
them, fearful, with the strange, intuitive fear of the wildlings, that if
she waited till the inflammation came on, she would not be able to return.
When she found that her little ones were safe, she revived and hid herself
on a limb of the tree, hoping her wounds might heal before her babies
starved.
Perhaps even then, wounded and crippled as she was, the mother owl
might have lived and cared for her young, but the hunter, as he made ready
to go home, remembered her and came back that way to see whether she had
returned. Sure enough, there she was, and near by was her mate also. He
shot them both, threw them into the river, and then stood on the bank,
watching with a contented smile as they floated away out of sight. He
turned homeward with the remark that the fishes would find them tough
eating. He did not look for a nest- he did not
care whether they had one or not. They were "only owls," and the
prejudice against their race is so strong in the minds of such as he that
he departed with the feeling that he had done the neighborhood a service.
"Only owls"- what difference did it
make if the young birds were left to starve?
The baby owls heard the report of the gun and smelled the powder, but
this was nothing unusual. They always shuddered at the sound,
instinctively feeling that it was something to be feared, but further than
that, they thought nothing of it. Young as they were, on other days they
had heard, and smelled, and shrunk down quivering with fear in the
morning, but later in the day their mother had come back, and told them
nothing of her troubles. Why should she not return again? However, when
night came on and she did not bring their supper, they wondered what it
could mean.
All night the little fellows waited in silence. They were cold, but no
warm breast came to hover them. They were hungry, but no father or mother
came to feed them. All day and all night they had waited. The second day
was a hard one, but surely the return of darkness would bring their
mother. She had never left them so long before. Another night wore slowly
away, and another day came. A hungry squirrel peeped in at them, but did
not deem it prudent to venture further. That night they were rejoiced to
hear the deep hoot of one of their race. He even came and lighted in their
tree, but he did no more.
Toward evening the next day my brother, seeing this strange owl sitting
near their snag, surmised that he had a nest near by. Finally noticing the
hollow snag, he climbed up, found the two babies, and brought them home,
not knowing their real plight till afterward. The owl whose nest he
thought he was robbing was a long-eared owl. These babies proved to be
barred owls, and I, a child, had happened to go to the river with father
and had seen the death of their parents. Brother gave one of the young
owls to my nephews, and one to me. Mine was a haggard-looking little
fellow, with great soft brown eyes. He was yellowish white in color, and
so light that he seemed little more than a fluffy ball of down with two
eyes and a bill. I fed him parts of a little chicken that had died, and he
ate ravenously, but I gave him only a small dinner at first. His brother
owl was fed all he could eat. The mistaken kindness of my nephews was
fatal; the next day their owl died.
My owl was about the size of a three-weeks-old gosling, but he was only
a baby after all. I put him under my pet hen to keep warm. She did not
like the idea of being foster mother to an owl, but finally she consented,
and he had a warm, snug place for the night.
I must tell you about that old speckled hen, for she was a marvel. She
was given to me, a five year-old lad, when she was a chick of two months,
and she be came a great pet. Her legs were so short that she could
scarcely waddle when it was at all muddy. She was not a trick hen, just a
good old mother. That was her forte. We used to set her first of all the
hens in the spring; and then, as fast as they hatched by other hens, give
her as many more chicks, ducks, turkeys, goslings, and little guineas as
she could hover. If she did not care to sit, we would give her a nestful
of eggs in a barrel and shut her up with them for a day or two. This was
all that was required, for she would then stay on the nest, though she
might lay an egg every day. As her brood grew, she would wean the older
ones, and we would give her more babies. When she decided to go to laying
again, she would go on the nest, and her chicks would sit around her or on
her back until she was ready to leave it. Then she would care for them the
remainder of the day as faithfully as any other barnyard mother. She had a
brood of chickens or other fowls to care for from early spring till late
fall, and never made a complaint.
When I began to raise pets, it was often necessary to have a mother for
them, and my favorite hen was willing to adopt them all, even to little
rabbits and kittens. At first she objected to the owl, not because she was
unwilling to care for any unfortunate that might come along, but be cause
she feared he might eat her other babies, of which she had several
varieties in her family.
I had no time to hunt meat for my pet, so he was fed a little
hard-boiled egg, but he lived mostly on Dutch cheese. This may seem a
queer diet for an owl, but the little fellow grew and thrived on it and
soon began to feather out. He slept under the hen at night till he was
fully half grown, spending his days in a box in the kitchen until he was
old enough to sit up in a large crab-apple tree that grew by the door.
Before long my owl had all his feathers and was as large as his father
had been. Now I fed him meat oftener. It was amusing to see him eat a
mouse. I would hold it up near his bill for a time, and he would pay no
attention whatever to it. Finally he would condescend to take it, always
head first, getting it all in his bill but the tail. He would sit
perfectly still a moment, as if giving thanks; then a slight stretch of
the neck, a blink of his eyes, and it was gone. He never tore his food; if
he could not swallow it whole he let it alone. He would never eat a dead
chicken unless it was first torn in pieces for him. After swallowing two
or three mice, he would hide in the shadiest place he could find in his
crab-apple tree, and sleep four or five hours. When he awakened, he would
throw up the fur, the teeth, and the largest bones of the mice he had
eaten, all made up into a ball.
Jonah was very fond of fish, as most owls are. He would take one in his
mouth, head first, and let it slip down his throat as far as the tail.
Then came that pause, the stretch of the neck, the peculiar wink, and all
was over. I have seen him swallow chubs and shiners five or six inches
long. It was for this reason that my sisters rather irreverently called
him Jonah, "for," they said, "he could swallow a
whale."
He was quite tame, and I played with him a little while each day. He
did not always enjoy this-not that he was not fond of me, but a daytime
play spell broke into his sleep. When I would begin climbing where he was,
he would waken with a start, and begin hissing and snapping his bill
fiercely. He would act very savage, and had I not known him, I would no
doubt have been somewhat frightened; but when I held out my hand, he would
demurely step over on my finger to be fed and petted.
In the barn was a bin containing only a little corn. When the doors
were all shut, it was quite dark. Here I sometimes took Jonah to hunt
mice. I would throw the corn, ear by ear, from one end of the bin to the
other, while he sat by, sedate as a judge, and looked on. He had the most
dignity of any bird I have ever seen. In fact, well as I came to know him,
I never caught him off dignity even for a moment. When most of the corn
was moved, the mice would begin to run. How Jonah managed it I could never
see, for mice, as you know, move quickly; but he would primly step around
just in time to get every mouse in his talons, even when two or three ran
out at a time. Sometimes he would have to use his wings, but he never
forgot that he had a reputation to maintain. He would catch all the mice
he wished to eat, but no more. When he had eaten all he wanted, the mice
might frisk all about him, and he would not hurt one of them. There was a
hole in the bin, and he usually hopped up in this when he had eaten all he
cared for.
Along in August, as the time drew near for the young owls to scatter
out and fly for miles, hardly knowing why or where they are going, finally
settling down wherever they happen to light, Jonah showed signs of
restlessness. Sometimes he would be absent from his own tree when morning
came, and I would find him in the grove. I would go into the woods and
call, "Jonah," and if he was near enough to hear, he would
answer by snapping his bill. One day he was gone. I wandered about the
woods for several days calling my pet, but no answer came. The life of an
owl hangs by such a slender thread that I decided he must be dead, and
finally gave him up.
But one evening almost a month later, when I was milking, I happened to
see an owl in an oak tree not far from the house. I ran under the tree and
called, but he paid no attention to me. He was were I could not climb to
him, so I got a long pole and made him fly. He lighted near the ground,
but as I was about to catch him he flew a few feet away. Finally he
allowed me to catch him, and I took the poor fellow home. He was so weak
and thin that he could scarcely fly. I think he would have starved to
death soon.
Jonah was now a greater pet than ever and grew wonderfully tame. In
fact, he became a dependent beggar. Mother was feeding Dutch cheese by the
bucketful to her chickens and turkeys. Jonah had always been very fond of
this article of diet, and now he gave up killing things for a living,
absolutely refusing meat of all kinds unless starved to it. He lived
entirely on Dutch cheese. I have since known hawks to do the same thing,
and my pet squirrels would never eat meat if they were given sufficient
proper food. The wildlings cannot cook starch, and many of them, like man,
cannot digest much of it raw. Consequently they are driven by sheer
necessity to a meat diet, but in the beginning it was not so.
The season for wandering was over, and now Jonah was more than willing
to stay at home. He was as sure to be in his own tree as the morning came.
But of a night! He had learned the woods for miles around, and being of a
sociable turn of mind, every owl far and near was his friend.
I have slept on the bank of a river in the deep woods, heard the owls
of all kinds gather around my campfire and scream and hoot and laugh till
the woods echoed and re-echoed with the noise of their jollity; but I
always supposed that they came one at a time, as they were attracted by
the fire. I never had any idea that such a concert was pre-arranged, and
perhaps it was not. But on every damp, dark night Jonah was wont to invite
his friends to a party at our home, and right royally they responded.
Great owls and small owls, big owls and little owls, owls with long ears,
owls with short ears, and owls with no ears at all-
all came, perching on the house and on the barn, on the sheds and on the
trees; and from midnight till well toward morning they laughed and hooted
and had a royal good time.
Yes, laughed. An owl can laugh as well as any schoolgirl; and were you
where you had no way of knowing what it was, you might easily mistake the
laugh of a great horned owl for that of some shrill-voiced, silly girl. We
came to look for a concert every dark night, and really enjoyed it.
Sometimes we went out into the yard and watched the performance, but the
owls did not seem much afraid. Perhaps Jonah had explained the situation
to them.
I am aware that this is a very unusual thing for owls to do. Indeed, I
never heard of such a thing anywhere else, except, as already mentioned,
when they gather about a campfire in the woods. My father tells me that he
heard such concerts in the Ozark Mountains years ago, but even this was
when he was camped out under some trees.
Yes, we had chickens, and some of them roosted on trees in the yard,
but, so far as we knew, the owls never bothered them. Really, I have
always regarded Jonah as the best protection we ever had against owls. The
neighbors sometimes complained that their chickens were taken, and it is
possible that the owl parties may have occasionally broken up in a raid on
some neighboring hen roost as the guests were going home; but ours were
never harmed, and I am sure that if such raids were made, Jonah had no
part in them; he was strictly opposed to eating meat.
Though he grew to be a very large, handsome owl, Jonah always insisted
on sitting on my finger and having me stroke his head. He showed no
inclination to fight, but once an old hen who had chickens did, and he
managed to give a good account of himself. He fell over on his back, and
when she tried to strike him, he caught her in his claws and scratched her
severely. When she finally left him alone, he did not harm her further. He
did not like dogs, and would always fall over on his back, ready to defend
himself, if one came near when he was on the ground; yet if they let him
alone, he would leave them alone.
Under Jonah's crab-apple tree sat a tub of water in which he bathed,
occasionally attending to this matter of the toilet in the daytime, if it
was dark and cloudy. If he became thirsty, even at noon of the brightest
day, he would fly down to this tub for a drink. One day, mother was
washing, and had a tub of water in which was concentrated lye sitting
under the tree. No one paid any attention to Jonah as he sat sleeping in
his tree, nor was he noticed till he had flown down and taken a large
drink of that water. All was done for him that could be done. He was fed
as much grease as he would eat, and really seemed to be getting better,
but he drooped for several days, and one morning lay dead under the tree.
Jonah's life ended before he was a year old, and before he had reached
the full age of grown-up owlhood, but he taught me much of woodcraft for
all that. I learned, long ago, that instead of teaching my pets, it is far
wiser to sit at their feet and let them instruct me. I may teach them some
tricks to show off in company, but if I would learn the ways of the
Creator, I must be content to be taught of them. There is not a bird or a
beast so humble but deserves our respect, for it has secrets for us more
wonderful than the greatest inventions of men.
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