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.
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