But, to return to the kite-he is the shyest of birds; not even at the time of incubation can you often get a shot at him. I have frequently found the nests: they are much like the carrion-crow's, only larger and more impervious. They are lined with whatever the birds can pick up such as old stockings, worsted gloves, wool, or indeed anything soft and warm. There are seldom more than three eggs, often only a couple. Kites generally build in the pine forests on the hills, and select a tree, with a thin bare stem, often very difficult to climb. I once concealed myself at the foot of a tree where a kite was sitting, in order to shoot it on its return to the nest-for they generally fly off at the most distant approach of an enemy. I was perfectly hid; and, after waiting nearly an hour, had an opportunity of witnessing the tact and cunning of the bird. The sun was shining warm upon the nest, or it would, most likely, not have kept me so long; at last I saw it flying round in very wide circles, which gradually narrowed: it then lighted upon a distant tree, and peering round in every direction, chose a nearer; and so on, until it came within three or four trees of the nest. It was now within shot; but I had unfortunately so placed myself as only to command the nest-tree, never doubting that it would light on this before it settled upon the nest. But I was out in my reckoning; as soon as it had tolerably reassured itself, it rose perpendicularly in the air, and came down upon its nest like a stone. The manner in which I was concealed prevented my getting a flying shot; so nothing remained but to fire

through the nest, which proved a sufficient defence, as the kite flew away, and never returned. A few days after, I climbed the tree with some difficulty, and took two eggs, about the size of a hen's, with duskyred spots.

OWLS

THE "hoolet" is generally regarded by the common people with a sort of superstitious awe; and, indeed, there is that in its nature and habits which is apt to call forth feelings of pleasure or aversion, according to the temper and circumstances of the observer. For my own part, I have always regarded these secluded birds with peculiar favour, whether watching them flitting past in the twilight, with silky spectre-like flight, or reverently listening after nightfall to their melancholy oft-repeated cry. Even the harsh screech of the white owl is not without its charm ; it appears to belong to the stillness of the night.

There are four species of owls which are emphatically British. For although the Snowy Owl has been occasionally seen and shot in the Shetland Isles, and the Great Eagle Owl is sometimes met with in the hilly districts of the North of England, yet they are so rare as scarcely to deserve the name of British birds. At all events, I know nothing of them except from report, and make it my rule never to run the risk of misleading by

borrowed information. The Little Owl, I have been told, occasionally builds near Oxford, but this Lilliputian is quite as scarce as his Brobdignag kin. By our British owls, then, I mean the Tawny or Ivy Owl, the White or Barn Owl, the Long-eared and Short-eared Owls.

Ever since the old tower of my ancestors has been in ruins, a pair of tawny owls have made their habitation there. When a boy, I never failed to search out their nest, and sometimes tamed one of the young, which was pretty sure to be decoyed away by the parents as soon as it was able to fly. I often saw both father and mother come to their young one in the dusk, sometimes with food in their talons. These young owls were not at all particular what they ate, and devoured greedily raw meat of any kind, as well as fish; but I never saw them drink, and when offered water, they showed as much dislike to it as a cat. All day the young owl sat moping, with closed eyes, hissing and snapping his bill if disturbed; but, about nightfall, his visage became full and staring, and so quick was his sight, that I have only been made aware, by the animation of his solemn face, that the indistinct shadow, barely perceptible, was one of the old ones.

A pair of white owls were equally constant to a small cave among the precipitous rocks of Inch Tavannach, the most picturesque of the thirty-three islands on Loch Lomond. I have often climbed to this nest-by no means an easy task-to watch the growth of the young. There were sometimes four or five, whereas the brown owl had seldom more than two or three. Every fine evening the

industrious white owl was to be seen skirting, with noiseless wing, the lawns and fields about Rossdhu, though nearly a mile from the island. I have often admired its expertness. Whenever it saw or heard a mouse, it settled in the air, like the osprey, and then, with its legs hanging down, ready to seize the moment it came to the ground, appeared rapidly to alight on its prey. The ways of the brown owl are different. It does not appear to hunt on the wing, but, perched on the top of the highest tree, hears the slightest rustling among the grass, and instantly descends upon its prey. The grotesquely large head of this bird, which also implies large eyes and ears, are no doubt wise provisions to enable it to see and hear acutely in the darkness from such a height. An instance of the very quick ear of the buzzard once came under my own notice, and is probably still more remarkable in the owl. This buzzard, scarcely full-fledged, was standing, erect as a drill-sergeant, in the midst of a noisy group, all distracting his attention, when a field-mouse was let out of a trap among the grass behind him. He listened, wheeled to the right about, instantly detected the little fugitive, and fastened his claw in its back.

I have been a good deal puzzled by the observations of an ingenious naturalist, which certainly are in direct opposition to my own. This gentleman resolved to see whether some young white owls, in his barn, could remain without food during the long summer day. He watched for about twelve hours, and avers that in that time the old birds fed them a hundred and fifty times. For my