Their eyes are closed
to a mere black line; though this crack they are watching me,
evidently thinking themselves unobserved. The spectacle is weird and
grotesque. It is a new effect, the night side of the woods by
daylight. After observing them a moment I take a single step toward
them, when, quick as thought, their eyes fly wide open, their attitude
is changed, they bend, some this way, some that, and, instinct with
life and motion, stare wildly about them. Another step, and they all
take flight but one, which stoops low on the branch, and with the look
of a frightened cat regards me for a few seconds over its shoulder.
They fly swiftly and softly, and disperse through the trees. I shoot
one, which is of a tawny red tint, like that figured by Wilson. It is
a singular fact that the plumage of these owls presents two totally
distinct phases which "have no relation to sex, age, or season," one
being an ashen gray, the other a bright rufous.
Coming to a drier and less mossy place in the woods, I am amused with
the golden-crowned thrush,--which, however, is no thrush at all, but a
warbler. He walks on the ground ahead of me with such an easy, gliding
motion, and with such an unconscious, preoccupied air, jerking his
head like a hen or a partridge, now hurrying, now slackening his pace,
that I pause to observe him.
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