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.