Bubo, the Great Horned Owl (American Woodland Tales)

by Jean Craighead George

  One little nuthatch sat on a maple limb. Soon he was hungry again and he eagerly surveyed the forest. His excitement was great, but his skill small. He saw a nearby tree that looked more interesting than his own, and jumped with confidence into the air. He flapped his wings energetically, but went down and down and down. He gained too much speed, lost control of his steering, and flew helplessly into the bole of a tree. He dropped to the forest floor. Too stunned by the blow to call, he sat in the grass blinking and trying to regain his senses, but that was too long.

  The blue racer sunning itself on a board by the sugarhouse saw the fledgling and sped toward it. And Sitta and his mate had only three fledglings.

  Several yards back from the clearing, sitting without movement, was Black Talon. She had come to roost near the edge of the clearing that morning, and all day she had slept there without being observed. From time to time she would open an eye and watch the birds below her. Sitta’s unruly fledglings would awaken her with their fussing and begging. In the afternoon she became more interested in them, for her meal of the night before was gone, and the pellet of bones and feathers was ready to be cast. When she cast it, it fell like an acorn. The busy songbirds paid no attention to the sound. Many things fell from the trees all day.

  Into Black Talon’s maple came a little red-eyed vireo. The owl opened one eye. The vireo had an enormous caterpillar in its bill. Then a lump on the far end of a branch quivered and came to life. It was a young cowbird. It called and fluttered its wings as it reached toward its foster mother. The little female vireo hopped toward the big awkward fledgling, looked nervously around the tree, and swiftly pushed the food into the bird’s mouth. She flew off. The cowbird made throaty swallowing noises, shook itself, and with puffed feathers waited for the next offering.

  Black Talon looked at the cowbird, opened her wings, and took off on a draft that swirled upward from the forest floor. Her strong right leg dropped out of her feathers and she stabbed at the lump on the maple branch. High in the tree there was a brief cry. It was heard only by Black Talon. This kill would have effect on the forest. One tired, thin vireo would be frustrated for a few hours, but perhaps next spring a song sparrow nest would be successful because there was one less cowbird.

  Through the winter Black Talon mastered her hunting techniques. She perfected her timing in her strikes at mice. She would make her swoop, then stab with her good right foot, and she would have her meal. She concentrated on catching mice during the winter, for the songbirds were few, most of them having migrated early in the fall. Black Talon knew of the migration of the songbirds as she knew of the disappearance of the leaves. It was in the schedule of the seasons. What made these birds follow the age-old routes to the warmer climates was of no concern to the owl. Her concern was food and shelter.

  In midwinter Parus, the titmouse, found himself scrapping quite frequently with a young male on his territory. This young male sometimes would find the open patches in the snow first and call the troop to feed. Parus would swoop down upon him. He would then survey the find himself. Often his troop was already there.

  At other times the young male would not yield a perch that Parus wanted. Parus would have to dive at him before the spunky titmouse gave way. Eventually the young male acquired a small following of his own, and within the troop there appeared a subgroup. In emergencies the troop would act as a unit and follow Parus, but when the sun was shining and the forest peaceful, a few young males and females would break away from Parus and go off with the young upstart. It was nothing serious, but it was a change from the other winters, and Parus did not like change, so he frequently attacked the young male. Sitta, the nuthatch, and his mate did not understand this friction. They felt at home among the noises of the titmice and loyally followed the lively Parus.

  Black Talon also had her effect on the sugarhouse community. Her hunting trips to the area had made some of the younger birds so uneasy they had not stayed in the clearing, and Parus’s troop was smaller than usual.

  Parus did not like the great owl hunting his territory either, but he was committed to remain where he was, so he simply adjusted himself to the owl. Through many terrifying experiences he came to know her habits. When the sun reached a specific point in the sky, the owl would leave her roost and fly north to the stream woods. Sometimes the crows would announce this to Parus. Then there would be a short lapse of time before she came to hunt from the basswood limb. During this time Parus would fly to his song post and call his “all’s well” signal. His troop could get to their roosts before she arrived. Even the young upstart had learned to respect this signal of Parus’s. The young male had retired late one evening. He had ignored the signal of the leader to go to roost, in order to preen himself a bit longer. He was at the edge of the clearing when suddenly he was scared rigid by the shadow of the owl gliding out of the forest. The owl took her perch, and the young upstart remained on his branch until it was dark and late. It rained that night, and he grew cold and uncomfortable. The morning sun revealed a shivering, puffed titmouse. After that he preened quickly when Parus signaled, and reported promptly to his hole in the beech by the fence. He found he was more comfortable if he obeyed Parus. In a sense he learned, although he soon forgot why he was prompted to act at the call from the old monarch, even as Parus forgot why he called when the light reached a certain dimness.

  Black Talon had worked out a successful hunting program for herself. She found that she could usually find a mouse just before sundown at the stream’s edge. If she did not, she would go to the sugarhouse where the titmice were preparing their night rituals. In November she had found them feeding boldly on the ground in the warm clearing. They were in the open and were easy to catch. She would take even such small bites of food. In December, however, she found that when she arrived at the sugarhouse clearing, the territory was silent and empty. Nevertheless she kept coming back all through December and into January, for this trip had been rewarding at one time. There also had been many mice, and usually she could find one scampering across the clearing. Now she had reduced the mouse population. One night by chance she left the basswood soon after she arrived and flew to the old meadow. Here the mice were active. The next night she did not stop at the sugarhouse, and then she ceased to come there at all. Nevertheless Parus still gave his signal at the same hour of dimness. This habit had become part of him.

  The courtship of the owls began. Black Talon and Bubo were unable to be discouraged by their nesting tragedies. As surely as the circling of the earth, they were drawn together again to mate and bring forth young.

  At the sound of their voices, the woodland community once more conspired to defeat the noble birds. That Bubo and Black Talon helped to control the balance of nature in the forest was not understood. Parus did not know that there was more food for his troop because there were fewer mice, nor did the cottontails know that they ate better because the owls kept them from multiplying so rapidly that they would eat themselves out of food and shelter. Nor did the crows know that the great owls kept down the number of rats in the field that ate the corn they needed. They only knew that Bubo and Black Talon made them frightened and wary and so they hated them and the young they brought forth.

  For many twilights, Richmondena, the cardinal, sat in his grape tangle and waited to hear the boom of the owls. He was tense, for there were no sounds from the stream forest, only silence. He preened his scarlet feathers with nervous jerks, then settled into a light sleep. He was terrified by the call of the horned owls, but their silence was worse, for he knew it had meaning. He had forgotten why. He awoke once when the moonlight was falling brightly through his thicket, opened his eyes, and chirped. Then he cocked his head to one side and listened to the noises of the April night. Water gurgled down the ravines. Two limbs rubbed together in the wind. They squeaked a lifeless sound. A flying squirrel was shelling an acorn in a white oak nearby. The pieces of shell clicked as they fell through the branches. There was nothing else. Richmondena lis
tened attentively. He had the same feeling that he had last summer before the owl had swooped down on his mate. Something was about to happen that would affect the entire forest community. The cardinal flicked his tail, chirped again, and went back to sleep.

  Parus, the titmouse, was also aware of the silence of the owls. He would stand awake in his cavity waiting for the booms, that he might know where Bubo and Black Talon were. All during January he had awakened early to listen to their last call before dawn. It usually came from the stream forest far beyond his territory. He would thrust his mouse-gray head from his cavity and look about the forest until his hunger annoyed him. He would fly to the clearing and call to his troop.

  Now there were no booms, and Parus was nervous. He left his cavity in the mornings with great caution.

  High in the old elm that grew by the stream in the forest, two young owls looked solemnly at the world around them. They were almost a month old. Their juvenile plumage was appearing through buffy down. Their eyes were large, giving them an expression of sober amazement. Their wing feathers had not broken out of the blue sheaths, but one or two tips of their tail feathers bloomed out from the ends of their sheaths like fans. The owlets bobbed their heads and twisted them up and around as they watched a red-shouldered hawk.

  Until this moment they had remained unknown. None had found the nest of the owls. A mouse had broken open a pellet that lay on the ground beneath the elm, but it had no meaning for him. Then suddenly the soaring red-shouldered hawk had looked down at the elm and had seen a powdery wing stretch up in the sun. He had circled and come in closer to the tree. The owlets had looked up and seen him. Their round faces and big eyes made him excited and angry.

  Bubo was asleep in the nearby pine. From time to time he awoke and stared at the elm tree. He saw the owlets peering at the sky. Bubo looked at the sky, too. He saw the red-shouldered hawk circling for an attack and winged after him. He climbed swiftly to a vantage point high in the forest crown. The red-shouldered hawk saw the owl and he veered off. Bubo perched defiantly, high in the canopy. Here he was conspicuous, and a moment later Corvus napped toward him. With great glee the old pest was calling to all the crows as he flew across the sky.

  Bubo circled the forest before he returned to his pine trees to see what was happening on the forest floor. There was a pink flush where the spring beauties covered the earth. A squirrel was digging among them trying to locate an old cache. The birds of the sugarhouse territory were in the maples near the woodland swamp. Parus was talking and chipping and working.

  Then Bubo saw the bulky nest in the oak above the slough. He saw the warm back of the female red-shouldered hawk as she incubated her clutch. Bubo was not hungry. He flew on to the stream forest and alighted soundlessly in his pine tree. He could see Black Talon sleeping on a limb above the nest. She stood on one foot. She always stood on one foot now.

  It seemed as if these owlets would live to fledge. They were now too big for their enemies to attack. Even Corvus, who finally located the nest, had been distressed by their size. They hissed and screamed and snapped at him when he came to annoy them. The raccoon that climbed up to them one night put his hand too close and got bit. He backed away, turned, and hurried down the tree.

  But there was one more enemy. He climbed over the fence at the far end of the stream woods and strode along the path that led into the forest. He, too, had been listening to the big owls boom during the nights of January. His chickens were disappearing, and he was sure it was the work of the owls. That his barnyard was infested with rats who were excellent chicken killers was no answer for the farmer. He rarely saw the rats, but he did hear and occasionally see the owls. And so the farmer of the lands to the north came to the forest to find them. He carried a gun under his arm. The air was cool and fresh. He felt fine and rather adventuresome. He passed the elm by the stream whistling and singing, and circled up the hill to the big beech-maple forest. All morning he wandered through the trees, poking at dens, looking at nests, and listening to Richmondena, the cardinal, sing his love song to the new mate that had just come to his territory. Then the farmer started home following the path he had taken earlier in the morning. He was somewhat tired and he watched his feet as he walked.

  At the elm tree he stopped, leaned down, and picked up something. It was a pellet cast by one of the owlets. He looked up into the tree and saw the big nest. Slowly he circled the elm until he could see bits of down twisting in the wind on the north side of the nest. He backed farther away from the tree. The heads of the two owlets appeared over the rim of the stick nest. He lifted his shotgun to his shoulder and aimed.

  A great blast sounded through the April woodland. The young owlets were silent in the nest. The farmer shot once more to make sure that he had completed his work. He was disappointed that his quarry had not fallen to the ground. He circled the tree again, then blew into the barrel of his gun and took to the path. By the time he reached the fence he had forgotten his deed; he was thinking about the quarrel he had had with his neighbor yesterday about who should fix the western fence.

  Bubo was awakened by the shattering noise of the gun. He sat tight in his pine trying to decide whether to fly or remain. He saw the man near the nest tree. He waited to see if his young needed protection, but the man seemed harmless and eventually wandered away. Bubo could not go back to sleep, he kept looking at the nest. The owlets were not sitting naturally. He flew to the edge of the nest and studied them for some time. He understood that these young also would not fly. He lowered his head, looked fiercely at the sky, then flew slowly back to his pine tree.

  Black Talon had been working desperately to feed her young and herself. Her one foot was now a real handicap. She hunted day and night. The morning of the tragedy she had seen a red squirrel near the slough. For many hours she had waited for an opportunity to strike and was finally rewarded. Swiftly she returned to the elm tree. There was no hissing and screaming from the nest. Bubo was sitting silent and awake in his pine. Black Talon pumped and dived into the nest; she landed heavily. She looked at her young, and as she did her heart beat at three times its usual rate. She prodded them, she turned them, enduring a distress so great she did not see or hear the crows who had come to annoy her.

  Even as the rabbits and rats were balanced by death, so were the owls.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  PARUS, THE TITMOUSE, sat on his song post, nervously affected by the intensity of the sunlight. It was nearing the hour of dimness when he should go to roost for the night. He preened a tail feather and made a soft noise. Parus still honored the early hour of retirement. It had become a habit.

  Another year had passed since the chicken farmer had killed the young owlets, and there had been some changes. From his song post Parus could see his second mate flicking the leaves at the edge of the raspberry patch. He watched her, then started to give his “all’s well” signal. A young male, who had spent the winter with Parus, flew to one of the leader’s western song posts and sang. Immediately Parus was sparked to anger. He dived at the younger male.

  Falco, the sparrow hawk, had seen the young male titmouse alight on the song post. He was on his way home to the hollow willow when the birds of the sugarhouse community attracted his attention with their late afternoon rituals. He had stopped at the top of a maple to watch them. He saw the young male come to the song post and sit boldly in view. He was prepared to strike when Parus drove the young male from the perch. The old monarch of the titmice then alighted on his song post and looked over his domain. He was so upset by the young male that he did not see Falco high in the maple. Parus had momentarily forgotten all else but keeping his spring territory free of all rival titmice. He threw back his head and boldly proclaimed his ownership in a loud ringing “Pee Tow, Pee Tow, Pee Tow.” High above him the falcon tipped forward, pushed with his feet and pulled with his wings. In an instant he was speeding straight at Parus.

  The young male titmouse saw the pointed wings, short neck, and long tail of Falc
o as he dived. He called the warning “seeeee” of the titmice, but Parus did not hear it. His reign in the big forest was over. The little titmouse had lived a long and glorious life, full and active to the last instant.

  Other titmice had heard the warning call of the young male and had heeded it. The big owl was back perhaps, or the red-shouldered hawk was flying home. Perhaps Otus, the screech owl, had come to the sugarhouse. In any event it meant danger. It was many minutes later that they heard the “all’s well” signal again, but it was not given by their old leader. A new voice sang out. The band of titmice were quick to note the change and were disturbed not to hear Parus. Even Sitta, the nuthatch, sat at the entrance to his hollow for a few minutes listening to the new voice he had heard. He finally slipped into his little cavity, fluffed out his feathers, and went to sleep.

  The death of Parus threw the early April community at the sugarhouse into chaos. Young birds were fighting for leadership, and the territory was open to any that could win it. Neighboring males closed in and boundaries changed. Many titmice met their deaths in the struggle for the territory which meant the chance to breed life.

  Dominating the entire forest was Bubo. He had become a marauder. He was no longer the silent hunter who flew only by night to hunt mice. He now appeared in broad daylight. He was everywhere, at any time, and his strike meant death.