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.