124 Bird -Lore 



seen my bird of the year previous, and there, seated upon the rail- 

 road embankment, as before, I watched a Bittern pump at short inter- 

 vals for more than an hour. Most of the time he was more or less 

 hidden by the low grass, through which he was slowly traveling down 

 the meadow ; but once, coming near the remains of a last year's 

 haycock, he went a little out of his way, mounted it, and boomed in 

 full sight. The Bittern is a wader and a recluse, but once in a while, 

 it appears, he has no objection to a clear platform and dry feet. 



I felt myself highly favored. Twice within three days I had been 

 admitted to "assist" at mysteries of which Thoreau, who spent his life 

 in the best of Bittern country, had never obtained so much as a 

 glimpse. 



Exactly a year afterward (May 4, i8go) I was strolling along a 

 road near home, when from a meadow beside it came the now 

 familiar pumping notes. I made toward the spot, and by the help 

 of a clump of alder bushes approached within a very short distance 

 of the bird, who stood in short grass, quite unconcealed. A migra- 

 tory visitor only, he must have been, for I am certain that no Bittern 

 ever summered in that place during my years of residence near it. 

 I watched him at his work till I was tired. Then, bethinking myself 

 of a friend and neighbor who knew nothing about birds, but had 

 once expressed to me a curiosity about the 'Stake-driver,' I walked 

 to the village, rang his doorbell, and invited him to go back with 

 me to see the show. The showman was still rehearsing, and we stole 

 upon him without difficulty, and saw as much as we wished of his 

 doings. Though it was Sunday morning, and the bird was as serious 

 as any parson, we took the liberty of laughing a little at his absurd 

 contortions. 



Since then I have heard the Bittern's music on sundry occasions, 

 but never have found it possible to come within sight of him in 

 the act of making it. Once, I remember, I was sitting upon a road- 

 side fence, reading, when a carriage stopped and an unrecognized 

 feminine voice said: "Do you see that Heron behind you, Mr. Tor- 

 rey ? " The "Heron" was Botaunts Icntigiuosiis, in a bit of low ground 

 close by a house. I shut my book and gave him my attention, 

 which he presently rewarded by catching and swallowing a snake. 

 This was in autumn, when Bitterns, like lesser birds, are liable to 

 turn up in unexpected quarters. The reader may take the incident, 

 if he will, as a warning against the reading of print out of doors. 

 As a general thing, we may safely say, Nature's page is better than 

 a book. 



One season a friend and myself became much interested in the 

 qiiestion as to the relative "carrying power' of the three notes or 



