200 OUT WITH THE BIRDS 



preted as, "Oh, dear Canada! Canada! 

 Canada!" 



Slowly I worked my way around the semi- 

 circular island. I disturbed the life of the place 

 as little as possible, for I had come to see the 

 creatures at home, and they are only truly there 

 when unconscious of prying eyes. The heronry 

 (black-crowned night species) in the heavier 

 grove of maples, was a silent, deserted place, 

 and as I stole through it and looked upon the 

 empty, rickety nests, I was impressed by the 

 power of the prompting that had seized these 

 birds and so early in the season had called them 

 away through the stillness of the August nights. 

 On my former visit, the handsome but ungainly 

 owners of the two hundred nests scattered 

 thickly through the branches sat in the tree-tops 

 and emitted nauseating stomach-tones and 

 squawks and whoops, while their progeny 

 — every single one a prehistoric nightmare — 

 leered about from the rest-rims or branches and 

 vnth callous unconcern vomited their latest meal 

 at the head of the intruder who thus dared to in- 

 vade their stinking privacy. Now all was quiet 

 and but a dozen of the former scores of herons 

 remained. 



