But I have
been less merciful to the great owls ever since, thinking of the
enormous destruction of game represented in raising two or three such
young savages, year after year, in the same swamp.
Once, at twilight, I shot a big owl that was sitting on a limb facing
me, with what appeared to be an enormously long tail hanging below the
limb. The tail turned out to be a large mink, just killed, with a
beautiful skin that put five dollars into a boy's locker. Another time
I shot one that sailed over me; when he came down, there was a ruffed
grouse, still living, in his claws. Another time I could not touch one
that I had killed for the overpowering odor which was in his feathers,
showing that _Mephitis_, the skunk, never loses his head when
attacked. But Kookooskoos, like the fox, cares little for such
weapons, and in the spring, when game is scarce, swoops for and kills
a skunk wherever he finds him prowling away from his den in the
twilight.
The most savage bit of his hunting that I ever saw was one dark winter
afternoon, on the edge of some thick woods.
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