Owls in the Family by Farley Mowat Read Free Book Online Page B

up all the other crows for miles around and try to mob him. When that happened he would come zooming down to the cave and bang on the door with his beak until we let him in. He wasn’t afraid of the crows; it was just that he couldn’t fight back when they tormented him. As for Weeps, he usually stayed right in the cave, where he felt safe.
    One summer afternoon, when we were at the cave, we decided to go for a swim. The three of us shucked off our clothes and raced for the sand bar, hollering at each other: “Last one in’s a Dutchman!”
    In half a minute we were in the water splashing around, and rolling in the slippery black mud along the edge of the sand bar. It was great stuff to fight with. Nice and soft and slithery, it packed into mushy mud-balls that made a wonderful splash when they hit something.
    Whenever we went swimming, Wol would come along and find a perch in the Hanging Tree where he could watch the fun. He would get out on the big limb that hung over the water and the more fuss and noise we made the more excited he became. He would walk back and forth along the limb, hoo-hooing and ruffling his feathers, and you could tell he felt he was missing out on the fun.
    This particular day he couldn’t stand it any longer, sohe came down out of the tree and waddled right to the river’s edge.
    We were skylarking on the sand bar when I saw him, so I gave him a yell: “Hey Wol! C’mon there, Wol old owl! C’mon out here!”
    Of course I thought he would fly across the strip of open water and light on the dry sand where we were playing. But I forgot Wol had never had any experience with water before, except in his drinking bowl at home.
    He got his experience in a hurry. Instead of spreading his wings, he lifted up one foot very deliberately and started to walk across the water toward us.
    It didn’t take him long to find out he couldn’t do it. There was an almighty splash and spray flew every which way. By the time we raced across and fished him out, he was half-drowned, and about the sickest-looking bird you ever saw. His feathers were plastered down until he looked as skinny as a plucked chicken. The slimy black mud hadn’t improved his looks much either.
    I carried him ashore, but he didn’t thank me for it. His feelings were hurt worse than he was, and after he had shaken most of the water out of his feathers he went gallumphing off through the woods, toward home on foot (he was too wet to fly), without a backward glance.
    Toward the middle of July Bruce and I got permission from our parents to spend a night in the cave. Murray couldn’t come because his mother wouldn’t let him. We took Wol and Weeps with us, and of course we had both dogs.
    In the afternoon we went for a hike over the prairie looking for birds. Mutt, who was running ahead of us, flushed a prairie chicken off her nest. There were ten eggs in the nest and they were just hatching out.
    We sat down beside the nest and watched. In an hour’s time seven of the little chickens had hatched before our eyes. It was pretty exciting to see, and Wol seemed just as curious about it as we were. Then all of a sudden three of the newly hatched little birds slipped out of the nest and scuttled straight for Wol. Before he could move they were underneath him, crowding against his big feet, and peep-peeping happily. I guess they thought he was their mother, because they hadn’t seen their real mother yet.
    Wol was so surprised he didn’t know what to do. He kept lifting up one foot and then the other to shake off the little ones. When the other four babies joined the first three, Wol began to get nervous. But finally he seemed to resign himself to being a mother, and he fluffed his feathers out and lowered himself very gently to the ground.
    Bruce and I nearly died laughing. The sight of the baby prairie chickens popping their heads out through Wol’s feathers, and that great big beak of his snapping anxiously in the air right over their heads,