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 to 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; through this crack they are
watching me, evidently thinking themselves unobserved. The spectacle
is weird and grotesque, and suggests something impish and uncanny.
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 around 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