s, and when one stirred away
from home, it did so to its sorrow. One morning there was such a
commotion I rode down to see what was the matter. A big dark brown form
flew down the avenue of sycamores ahead of us, followed by a mob of all
the feathered house owners in the neighborhood. They escorted it home to
the top of its own tree, where it seated itself on a limb, its big
yellow eyes staring and its long ears dropped down, as if home were not
home with a rout of angry bee-birds and blackbirds screeching and diving
at you over your own doorsill. Two orioles started to fly over from the
next tree, but went back, perhaps thinking it wiser not to make open war
upon such near neighbors; while a sparrow hawk who came to help in the
attack was judged too dangerous an ally and escorted home by a squad of
blackbirds dispatched for the purpose. The poor persecuted owl screwed
its head around to its back as if hoping to see pleasanter sights on
that side; but the uncanny performance did not seem to please its
enemies, and a blackbird flew rudely past, close under its bill, as if
to warn it of what might happen.

The queerest of all my tenants was an old mother barn owl who lived in
the black charred chimney of one of the sycamores. I found a white
feather on the black wood one day in riding by, and pulling Canello up
by the tree, broke off a twig and rapped on the door. She came
blundering out and flew to a limb over our heads--such a queer old
crone, with her hooked nose and her weazened face surrounded by a
circlet of dark feathers. The light blinded her, and with her big round
eyes wide open she leaned down staring to make out who we were. Then
shaking her head reproachfully, she swayed solemnly from side to side.
As the wind blew against her ragged feathers she drew her wings over her
breast like a cloak, making herself look like a poverty-stricken
wiseacre. Finding that we did not offer to go, the poor old crone took
to her wings; but as she passed down the line of sycamores she roused
the blackbird clan, and a pair of angry orioles flew out and attacked
her. My conscience smote me for driving her out among her enemies, but
on our return to the sycamores all was quiet again, and a lizard was
sunning himself on the edge of the old owl's chimney.

XI

AN UNNAMED BIRD.

SIX years ago, on my first visit to California, I found a dainty cup of
a nest out in the oaks, but the name of its owner was a puzzle. On
return