THE BITTERN 69 
and were hardly seated on the edge of the 
meadow, facing the beautiful Nobscot Hill, be- 
fore my comrade said, “ Hark! There he is!” 
Yes, that certainly was the very sound — an 
old-fashioned wooden pump at work in the 
meadow. 
We listened intently for perhaps half a dozen 
times; then I proposed going further up the 
track to get the notes at shorter range, and pos- 
sibly — who could tell what unheard-of thing 
might happen ? — to obtain a sight of the bird. 
We advanced cautiously, though as we were on 
the track, six feet or more above the level of the 
meadow, there was no chance of concealment, 
and the bittern went on with his performance. 
Meanwhile we maintained a sharp lookout, and 
presently I descried a narrow brown object stand- 
ing upright amidst the grass — a stick, perhaps. 
I lifted my opera-glass and spoke quickly to my 
friend: “I see him!” 
“Where?” he asked; and when I lowered 
my glass and gave him the bird’s bearings as 
related to the remains of an old hayrick not far 
off, he said, “ Why, I saw that, but took it for a 
stick.” 
“ Yes, but see the eye,” I answered. 
Within half a minute the bird suddenly threw 
his head forward and commenced pumping. 
