RICHARDSON'S OWL
ON the thirteenth of April last, at Hallock, Minn., while afield in the morning after Migration Report data, I stumbled suddenly upon a Richardson's Owl, in a willow bush, four feet up, on a brush-land side-hill, two hundred yards above the river. A strong wind was blowing, and kept the willow stems a-swaying and the feathers fluttering, while the dullness of an overcast sky made quick exposures impossible. Nevertheless, I hurried home, a mile away, and returned with camera and plates,—'Crown' and 'Stanley.' The bird was still in situ, and leaning, as before, against the upright stem nearest him, as a brace against the wind. With stop 16, or a little larger, and time 1/5 to 1/2 second, both according to the conditions of wind and sky, eight exposures were made, beginning at five feet distance, and with waits for lulls in the wind. The bird seemed fearless, but I dared not try to put him on the alert, nor cause him to open his eyes. The eighth exposure was made at about two feet, the camera leisurely dismounted, and the bird then quietly caught about the back, with the left hand, while his attention was distracted with the right.
RICHARDSON'S OWL
The little captive showed no fight nor did he try to escape so long as I held him by the feet, in an upright position. But when his body was clasped he would struggle vigorously. With all the handling I gave him in taking weights and measures, the only wounding he caused my hands was made in his attempts to secure a better grasp of my holding hand. While not actually tame, from the first he showed ecstatic delight in my stroking of the feathers on the back of his head,—chirping delightedly during the process, with much the manner and voice of a chicken when tucked under the maternal wing.
While spending his first night of captivity in my study, pending careful examination, he dropped upon my book-cases several casts, which are still awaiting analysis. At noon of the second day he was placed in the garret, where he had a measure of darkness and plenty of wing room. Here he ate readily the heads of food that was left convenient, varying this occupation with the tearing to pieces of an old Cooper's Hawk skin. So far as I could judge, he ate only on alternate days.
During the eight days of his sojourn with me, no increase of tameness was shown; and he would fly when I came near, seeking the darkest cranny of the garret, scolding me often with the characteristic anger-note of all the smaller Hawks and Owls. Soon my captive found a permanent home in the family of the foster-father of Minnesota ornithology, where, I was soon informed, he became quickly domesticated,—eating bits of steak from a chop-stick, beheading English Sparrows with neat despatch, and drinking from a teaspoon.
