The Songsters of the Skokie 27 



plod the marshes in the late spring, shoot down ruthlessly 

 every bittern that rises lazily in front of them. The bird is 

 harmless and adds something of life to the landscape, but it 

 must needs fall victim to that love of killing simply for kill- 

 ing's sake, which seems to dwell in the hearts of many 

 so-called sportsmen. 



One spring morning I saw a bittern pitch in the swamp 

 grasses where a bit of the woodland had encroached upon the 

 marsh. I marked the spot where the bird had lighted and 

 walking toward it flushed it from its retreat. It flapped 

 its way lazily over the marsh to a pasture which was dotted 

 with stumps. There was absolutely no cover there for the 

 bird. I went to the place and searched the ground thoroughly 

 through a pair of strong glasses, but never a feather did I see. 

 I knew that I could not have failed to see the bittern had it 

 flown away, for barring the stumps, the place was as open as 

 a lawn. Finally a small stump came into the field of my glass. 

 Stump? No; it was not a stump at all, but the bittern itself 

 posing as a bit of dead wood to deceive the intruder. The 

 bird was not more than fifteen yards away. Its body was 

 perpendicular, its neck and head were drawn well down into 

 the shoulders, and the beak was pointing upward, forming a 

 prolongation of the line of the back. The bird in appearance 

 was the counterpart of every one of a dozen of the smaller 

 stumps within a stone's toss of where I stood. I sat down 

 for the sole purpose of testing the bittern's patience. I 

 watched it steadily for twenty minutes, and during all that 

 time it moved not so much as a muscle. It seemed, more- 

 over, as if it had control of its feathers, for the passing breeze 

 which stirred the swamp grass beyond, failed to ruffle its 



