Whenever I heard their cries, I knew my neighbor was being
berated. The birds would take turns at looking in upon him and
uttering their alarm-notes. Every jay within hearing would come to the
spot and at once approach the hole in the trunk or limb, and with a
kind of breathless eagerness and excitement take a peep at the owl, and
then join the outcry. When I approached they would hastily take a
final look and then withdraw and regard my movements intently. After
accustoming my eye to the faint light of the cavity for a few moments,
I could usually make out the owl at the bottom feigning sleep.
Feigning, I say, because this is what he really did, as I first
discovered one day when I cut into his retreat with the axe. The loud
blows and the falling chips did not disturb him at all. When I reached
in a stick and pulled him over on his side, leaving one of his wings
spread out, he made no attempt to recover himself, but lay among the
chips and fragments of decayed wood, like a part of themselves.
Indeed, it took a sharp eye to distinguish him.
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