io8 Bird - Lore 



a bit, Ihe plumes were slowly withdrawn into the plumage, and he disappeared 

 into the flags. Soon I heard him again from farther back in the marsh. He 

 had given me an exceptional opportunity to see his nuptial plumes, which are 

 shown only during the mating-season. 



One day in May, as I was tramping around in the thick grass among the 

 scattering cat-tails, my feet sinking into the ooze with each step, a female 

 Bittern arose, uttering a gurgling squawk, and flew away. There at my feet 

 on the ground in a nest of dead flags lay six large, olive-drab eggs. Four weeks 

 later, all but one of the eggs had hatched into five of the most awkward, 

 fluffy, yellow-drab-colored babies imaginable. When I approached, they 

 would crowd to the back side of the nest, face toward me and keep their eyes 

 on me every minute. When one week old, one was placed upon some flags, and 

 it at once assumed the characteristic attitude of its elders, the head and bill 

 pointing straight up. The youngest member of the family was a runt, and at 

 two weeks old was scarcely one-half as large as its brothers and sisters. At 

 this age, when the nest was approached, they would sneak away in the grass 

 and flags so quickly that I could hardly keep track of them, and a few days 

 later thev had left the nest and were seen no more. 



Another nest was placed in a bunch of cat-tails out in deep water, where 

 I had to use a boat to get to it. It was made of dead flags built up just above 

 the water. Here I found the female sitting on the nest, with head and bill 

 pointing straight up, her plumage and attitude matching the flags so closely 

 that she was scarcely distinguishable from the surrounding flags. Here she 

 remained perfectly immovable until I touched her with an oar when, uttering 

 a protesting squawk, she flew away. 



The Bittern is solitary in habit, and in August and September I find them 

 standing in the shallow water at the edge of the marsh, each one alone, a 

 solitary fisherman among the pond-UUes and scattering bunches of flags and 

 marsh-grass. They stand so silent and motionless that they seem to be old 

 stump-roots sticking up out of the water. But their every sense is alert, and 

 woe be to the luckless frog or fish that gets within striking distance of that 

 long, sharp bill. 



The Mockingbird 



Gray singer, of the song-range limitless. 



Thy name but ill befits thee — is a slur 

 Upon thy golden morning-heartedness; 



No mocker thou, but an interpreter. 



Thou dost divine and utter forth in words 



All brooding joys, winged hopes, and soaring prayers. 



Mingling the simpler songs of other birds 



In the rich beauty of an art not theirs. — Nina Bull 



