Birds and Nature Vol. 11 No. 4 [April 1902]. Various
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we reached the pool Polly knelt down and drank, and then gathered and ate several handfuls of red haws from the scrubby little trees that grew around the pool. We then started on, walking as fast as Polly could.
We had gone on for perhaps two hours, when I insisted upon stopping to eat some more grass. Polly pulled at my collar. “Oh, Lopez, come on,” she said, a little crossly. “If I can do without something to eat, surely you can, too.” But I would not go, and she sat down in the grass to wait for me.
When we started on again I noticed that Polly was shivering. The sun had disappeared behind a misty veil of clouds and it was much colder than it had been in the early morning. Later in the day we came to a deep ravine. A few pecan trees grew along its banks, and here Polly gathered some of the fallen nuts and ate them, while I ate my dinner of grass.
We found a place where a smooth trail crossed the gully. This we followed until it broadened out and was lost in the prairie grass.
The sky was now a dull slate color, and little feathery flakes of snow were falling. I could see a dark streak in the distance, which I knew must be timber. Instinct taught me that here we should find shelter, and towards this we were hurrying. Little drifts of snow were gathering in Polly’s flaxen hair, and her hands were purple from cold. She stumbled often, sometimes quite falling down, but she would get up and struggle on. The timber still seemed a great way off, when Polly stopped.
“It is no use for me to try, Lopez,” she said; “I can’t go any further. You will have to go on alone,” and she sank down into the snowy grass.
Now, this was a terrible fix to be in. The storm was growing worse every minute, and I knew that it must be almost night. I would run around Polly and stamp my feet, then rub my nose against her face, trying to persuade her to get up and go on, but she would only say, “Poor Lopez, I can’t go any further.” After awhile she would not notice me; then I knew she was asleep.
A feeling of despair was coming over me, when I saw two men, riding toward the timber. I ran out, so that I was directly in their path, and stood facing them, stamping my feet. It was evident that they were watching me with some interest, and when they were near me the older of the two exclaimed, “Why, that is Polly Vinson’s pet antelope. Rope him, Bob, and we will take him home!”
The young man loosened a coil of rope from the pommel of his saddle and began to swing a loop above his head; but before the loop could descend I sprang away and ran to where Polly was lying, now almost covered with snow. The two men started on, and I ran round and round and stamped my feet. I was almost frantic.
They stopped again, and the younger one came to us. He got off his horse and bent over Polly, then turned and called to his companion, who was now coming toward us:
“Mr. Dawson, here is little Polly herself, and I fear she is dead.” He lifted Polly up and shook her, rather roughly, I thought. “Polly! Polly!” he cried, “wake up and tell me how you came here.”
Polly opened her eyes and sleepily looked at the young man. “Oh, Mr. Bob,” she said wearily, “Lopez and I are lost. Won’t you please take us home?” Then she leaned her head against him and closed her eyes again.
He quickly pulled off his overcoat and wrapped it around Polly, and handed her up to the older man. Then, tying the end of his rope through my collar he mounted his horse, when we started swiftly toward the timber. To be tied was an indignity that I had never before submitted to, but now I was so glad to have some help with Polly that I made no resistance.
Very soon were were at the Dawson ranch. Indeed, Polly and I, without knowing it, had been going straight to the ranch, and were not more than a mile away when she gave out and went to sleep in the snow.
When Polly was warm and had eaten something, Mr. Dawson put her to bed, and Mr. Bob took me to the warm kitchen, where I had a nice supper of wheat bran. While I was eating Mr. Dawson came to the kitchen and patted me on the neck. “Brave Lopez,” he said, “you saved the life of your little mistress.”
After a few minutes the young man stood up. “Mr. Dawson,” he said, “I am going to ride to Vinson’s to-night and let him know that his child is safe.”
“What,” cried Mr. Dawson, “ride ten miles through this storm? You must not think of such a thing.”
“Yes,” replied the young man, quietly, “I shall go. Blackbird will carry me there safely, and I shall only be doing as I would be done by.”
A little later I heard him ride away, and then I went to sleep.
THE BURROWING OWL
(Speotyto cunicularia hypogaea.)
The Burrowing Owl is a denizen of the prairies and plains west of the Mississippi and the Missouri rivers. It is found from localities somewhat north of the United States as far to the southward as Guatemala. In some parts of this large area it is exceedingly common, and it is the only representative of the owl tribe that inhabits, in any numbers at least, the treeless regions of the western states.
Unlike other species of owls, the Burrowing Owl is especially fitted for a subterranean mode of life. It will make its home in the burrows of the various animals that inhabit the prairie regions. These birds are social and live in colonies consisting of several pairs. Some Indians have claimed that it retires into its burrow at the approach of winter, and there remains in a torpid condition during the cold weather. Careful observers have, however, shown that this is not the case. It may be said that, except in the northern part of its range, where the winters are severe, it is resident wherever found and not migratory. It is probable that it would not be migratory at all were it not that the animals upon which it feeds are not obtainable in severe weather. Investigation has proved that the stories of the confidential relations existing between the Burrowing Owl, the prairie dog and the rattlesnake are pure fabrications of an imaginative mind, greatly strengthened by additions as they are passed from person to person. The only foundation for these stories is the fact that this Owl and also the rattlesnake do occasionally enter the burrows of the prairie dog. Dr. Coues has said “that the Owls live at ease in the settlements and on familiar terms with their four-footed neighbors is an undoubted fact; but that they inhabit the same burrows or have any intimate domestic relations is quite another thing. It is no proof that the quadrupeds and the birds live together that they are often seen to scuttle at each other’s heels into the same hole when alarmed, for in such a case the two simply seek the nearest shelter independently of each other.” It is not at all strange that the snakes should also enter these holes. It may be that they do so for the want of some other retreat on a broad expanse of prairie, but it is much more probable that they are in search of food, either in the form of young dogs or the eggs of the Owl. Though the Burrowing Owls are found with the burrowing mammals, they do not occupy the same holes with them and do without doubt drive them out if they wish to pre-empt the burrows for their own use.
Though the Burrowing Owl probably obtains most of its food in the early twilight, it is frequently “in motion on the brightest days, capturing its prey or evading its pursuer with the greatest ease.” Like the sparrowhawk, it frequently hovers in the air and drops upon its prey. Its food consists of the smaller rodents, including the young of the prairie dog, frogs, fish, lizards, snakes and insects of various kinds. In fact, its food is so varied and consists of noxious animals to so great an extent that it is of great service to the agriculturist. Dr. Fisher says: “In summer and fall, when grasshoppers and crickets are exceedingly abundant on the western plains, the Burrowing Owl feeds almost exclusively on such food. Like the sparrowhawk, this little Owl will chase and devour grasshoppers until its stomach is distended to the utmost.” It is rare and only when pressed for food that it attacks and kills other birds.
Dr. C. S. Canfield gives the following account of its nesting habits: “I once took pains to dig out a nest of the Burrowing Owl. I found the burrow was about four feet long and the nest was only about two feet from the surface of the ground. The nest was made in a cavity of the ground, of about a foot in diameter, well filled with dry, soft horse-dung, bits of an old blanket and the fur of a coyote that I had killed a few days before. One of the parent birds was on the nest, and I captured it. It had no intention of leaving the