I have seen the snowbirds twittering contentedly near him.  Once I saw him fly out to sea in the midst of a score of gulls, which paid no attention to him.  At another time I saw him fly over a large flock of wild ducks that were preening themselves in the grass.  He kept straight on; and the ducks, so far as I could see, merely stopped their toilet for an instant, and turned up one eye so as to see him better.  Had it been dusk, the whole flock would have shot up into the air at the first startled quack—­all but one, which would have stayed with the owl.

His favorite time for hunting is the hour after dusk, or just before daylight, when the birds are restless on the roost.  No bird is safe from him then.  The fierce eyes search through every tree and bush and bunch of grass.  The keen ears detect every faintest chirp, or rustle, or scratching of tiny claws on the roost.  Nothing that can be called a sound escapes them.  The broad, soft wings tell no tale of his presence, and his swoop is swift and sure.  He utters no sound.  Like a good Nimrod he hunts silently.

The flight of an owl, noiseless as the sweep of a cloud shadow, is the most remarkable thing about him.  The wings are remarkably adapted to the silent movement that is essential to surprising birds at dusk.  The feathers are long and soft.  The laminae extending from the wing quills, instead of ending in the sharp feather edge of other birds, are all drawn out to fine hair points, through which the air can make no sound as it rushes in the swift wing-beats.  The whish of a duck’s wings can be heard two or three hundred yards on a still night.  The wings of an eagle rustle like silk in the wind as he mounts upward.  A sparrow’s wings flutter or whir as he changes his flight.  Every one knows the startled rush of a quail or grouse.  But no ear ever heard the passing of a great owl, spreading his five-foot wings in rapid flight.

He knows well, however, when to vary his program.  Once I saw him hovering at dusk over some wild land covered with bushes and dead grass, a favorite winter haunt of meadow-larks.  His manner showed that he knew his game was near.  He kept hovering over a certain spot, swinging off noiselessly to right or left, only to return again.  Suddenly he struck his wings twice over his head with a loud flap, and swooped instantly.  It was a clever trick.  The bird beneath had been waked by the sound, or startled into turning his head.  With the first movement the owl had him.

All owls have the habit of sitting still upon some high point which harmonizes with the general color of their feathers, and swooping upon any sound or movement that indicates game.  The long-eared, or eagle-owl invariably selects a dark colored stub, on top of which he appears as a part of the tree itself, and is seldom noticed; while the snowy owl, whose general color is soft gray, will search out a birch or a lightning-blasted stump, and sitting up still and straight, so hide himself in plain sight that it takes a good eye to find him.