snipping off the heads of little animals as delicacies for their offspring and consuming the bodies themselves.
I need not describe the Screech Owl. It is just the same bird as from yonder ivy-mantled tower,
"does to the moon complain
Of such as, wandering near her secret bovver,
Molest her ancient, solitary reign."
Specimens from different parts of the world do indeed differ a little, and Jerdon described the Indian bird as a distinct species under the name Strix javanica, but in the Fauna of British India, as I am glad to see, it appears under the name given by Linnaeus to the Barn Owl of Europe, Strix flammea. Our second owl is a very different character. Repudiating all the austere, exclusive and mystical ways of its race, and encumbered with no superfluous solemnity, the Spotted Owlet (Carine brama) makes itself one of the most familiar objects of Indian life. It does not wait for the darkness of night, but appears before the sun has fairly set, and occasionally gives us a look even in the middle of the day. Who does not know the little Punchinello, its unfailing vivacity, its inimitable drolleries, and the volubility of its eloquence. Often, sitting at the door of my tent at dusk and listening to that torrent of squeak and gibber and chatter, I have wearied myself with surmising what could be the meaning of it all. It seems to be conversational or controversial, for there are always two engaged in it and both speak at once. Perhaps it is a domestic quarrel, but the character of the Spotted Owlet almost forbids that idea. He is truly, in the language of the tombstones, an affectionate
