One February night, when taking a last look around before turning in, I heard a curious suppressed bark up the wood road. The day had been unusually warm and a full moon on the snow revealed objects clearly.
On the chicken house roof stood a long slim form that sunk and turned to a fluffy ball which meowed with hissing intonation. Again it rose, stretched the neck, swung it pendulum-wise, slowly dropping until the head lay almost flat on the roof — and barked! The next act was a sailor's hornpipe given with all the verve and action of an adept "hoofer," the dancer accompanying himself with vocal exclamations — tu-whoo-who who tu whoo are you?
Spring had touched whatever tender chords lurked in feathered Attila's breast and this wild dance was a love manifestation. The lady was near by in the hemlocks and after one of the performer's special bits, would stir him into wilder activity by a few whoo whoos of applause. The act lasted fifteen minutes and was fully enjoyed by the audience.
When the deep notes of these air-tigers come thru the night, I think all other children of the woods shrink closer into their hiding nooks, for the menace must be unmistakable. Malignant, bloodthirsty, powerful and undaunted, HORNED OWLS epitomize all the cruelty and evil threatening the little people.
Animals up to the size of a cat or small dog are possible victims, especially if they happen to be partially white. Skunks are favorite tidbits, and few Owls are free from their perfume.
Nests are defended with such aggressive onslaughts that even man is likely to receive slashes. There are numerous records of Bubo combats with different animals, in some of which he is conquered!
Their claws are against all living things, so "thumbs down." Perhaps they are a necessary check, killing friendly and evil forms alike, but they are the only birds about which I cannot get up any enthusiasm.
From central Canada, thru central and eastern United States to the Gulf coast.