130 NATURE-STUDY REVIEW 



we pass beneath the road his mate flies from her moss-covered, 

 feather-lined, mud house on one of the log stringers. Near the 

 bridge we land to watch a chickadee feeding her eight bob -tailed 

 little Blackcaps in a hollow birch stub. 



At the edge of a wet meadow we see a great blue heron hunting 

 frogs. Watch the deliberate way in which he slowly lifts one foot, 

 sets it down gently in the mud ahead of him, leans foiward, lifts 

 the other foot, places it carefully, and then, with an almost light- 

 ning-like motion, darts his long neck forward and spears his prey. 

 For a second he holds the frog as he looks around, then begins the 

 work of swallowing. And what a job it is ! The long neck craned 

 upward, we watch a strange swelling pass slowly down from the 

 bird's beak, until it reaches the body, and the bird settles down for 

 another period of watchful waiting. But now we pick up our 

 paddles and drive the canoe forward with a few quick strokes 

 toward the unsuspecting heron. In a panic he springs up, the 

 great wings flapping awkwardly, the neck craned ahead until he 

 is well clear of the trees, then folding back in an S-shape so that the 

 head rests between the shoulders, the bird makes off downstream. 

 Some day we will paddle up the big lake and visit the heronry where 

 a dozen nests are located in dead trees in a big swamp, and where 

 the black ducks nest, and possibly a pair of the beautiful wood 

 ducks, a spot only to be reached by canoe. 



Over here at the edge of this little backwater, are some plants 

 of the round-leafed sundew. Shall we stop and help it to a meal, 

 for the sundew, like the pitcherplant, is said to be carnivorous? 

 Catch one of those tiny lace-winged flies, and touch it lightly to the 

 sticky filaments which fringe the sundew's leaf. Isn't it uncanny, 

 the way the leaf curls up about the insect, until it is hidden from 

 view? By and by the leaf will uncurl again and only a shriveled 

 shell will be left for our fly. See how many other shells of dead 

 insects we can find on the other leaves. 



There at the edge of the stream where the woods come close 

 is a belated moccasin flower. A bee buzzes past us, lights on the 

 inflated pouch, forces his way rudely in through the incurved edges 

 and we watch his shadow through the translucent blossom as he 

 takes his fill of nectar. Now he is finished, and is crowding out 

 from the upper part of the petal, with a load of yellow pollen 

 plastered on his back, for this bee is the instrument of cross- 



