CHAPTER LXV 



THE HERON 



An old cock heron stood alone on the silent snow-field 

 beneath a grey sky, the setting sun burnishing his fierce 

 warrior head — sable plumed, and flashed from his silver- 

 grey back, spangled with sable epaulettes, that were lost in 

 his pied and plumed cuirass. Patches of milk-white melting 

 into the snow suggested his neck and thighs, and dark lines 

 outlined his sharp dagger-beak and stilt-legs ; for the heron 

 is a true son of the Fens. 



Not another bird was to be seen on that wintry eventide. 

 Frank, however, as the fenmen call him, was not alone. A 

 rising and falling patch of colour over the snow-field had 

 attracted his attention. A hare was leaping across the 

 white fields, making a dining journey to a planting a mile 

 away. After gazing sharply at the hare till it reached an 

 opening in a hedgerow on the upland, Frank's long neck 

 doubled and he drew himself together. He was cold, for 

 he and his kind feel the cold keenly, and j^et they linger 

 with us, faithful to the marshland. 



As the blackthorn bursts into bloom, Frank goes off to 

 his fir-trees by Reedham (for there is a heronry there, 

 though few persons know it), or, more careless, builds in the 

 low willows by the river, and he is rarer on the marsh- 

 lands until August, when he comes with his young to the 

 broads. Just before harvest you may hear the heron all night 

 calling hoarsel}^, " Frank, Frank ; " also the shriller cries of 

 the young as they hunt for eels in the dikes or by the 

 mere-side, scarce a foot deep, leaving their dung on the soft 



