90 The Wilson Bulletin— No. 87 



third of a mile at the narrow point on the east to two and 

 three miles on the north and west, and to the south it stretches 

 away solidly. Around this great circle birds may be found 

 nesting at many points. Mr. Baynard, who visited this 

 rookery in February, 1912, before the cypress trees had leaved 

 out, gave it as his opinion that there were not less than 

 seven or eight thousand nests of the "Wood Ibis here. Tree 

 after tree bore from twelve to twenty or more nests of this 

 species, and in one I counted thirty-two. Years ago before 

 the Egrets and Spoonbills had become so sadly decimated, 

 for they once bred here in large numbers, it must have been 

 a spectacle so imposing as to defy an adequate description. 

 The Egrets, Wood Ibis, and Spoonbills all nest high up in 

 the cypress trees, very few under fifty feet and many seventy- 

 five and eighty feet up. At this season, the middle of March, 

 nearly all the nests contained young. A few of the Wood 

 Ibis and Egrets were still incubating eggs, but these were 

 more than likely birds that had been broken up elsewhere. 



Bird studying in a cypress swamp is not all roses, though. 

 It means wading from start to finish, anywhere from knee 

 to waist deep, with a good chance of hitting unexpected 

 depths at any moment. The cypress trees, heavily draped 

 with the Florida long moss, or as it is more commonly known, 

 "Spanish moss," stand close together, vines cross and recross 

 in the openings, impenetrable tangles of button-wood force 

 you to turn aside. Occasionally one comes upon deep, open 

 pools and lagoons covered with lettuce and lily pads, with 

 here and there a half-grown alligator perking up his head. 

 There were big ones in the swamp, too, although I never 

 chanced to see one, but the bellows that emanated forth on a 

 couple of hot nights never came from anything less than 

 eleven or twelve foot 'gators. 



Another interesting feature, and one that is not likely to 

 slip your mind for any great length of time, is the dangerous 

 cotton-mouthed moccasin, for he puts in his appearance just 

 about often enough and at just about familiar enough range 

 to keep one on the qui vive. Wading waist deep you come 

 to a nice log and start to climb up onto it. You look again. 



