364 The Cranes 



lay the socks aside, and replace the boots on bare 

 feet to protect them while wading. When the 

 boots were tightly laced to keep out the mud, all 

 preparations were completed, but I suspect that 

 the ensemble was highly suggestive of an over- 

 grown specimen of Grus. 



Those who have tackled a quaking bog will 

 understand what a portion of this task was like. 

 At first there was only mud, — black, greasy mud, 

 — of any depth you please, but that mattered little. 

 There is a way, getting a lot of grass, rice, or 

 other stuff under your feet, and moving at a 

 steady pace, which enables one to defy mere mud. 

 A bit farther in, however, it was different. The 

 whole business began to sway and heave till it 

 rolled in slimy waves. Then came the full reali- 

 zation of what a stumble or error in putting down 

 a foot might mean, and I heartily cursed the crane 

 for having fallen in such a place. 



At last I neared him, and something in the 

 gleam of his steadfast eye suggested caution. 

 The filthy water was within about four inches of 

 the uprolled trousers, and I was slowly sinking. 

 To bend over the bird was too risky. A jab for 

 an eye would have been the certain penalty, and 

 that would almost as certainly have meant a back- 

 ward lurch and a possible loss of balance and gen- 

 eral mix up, too horrible to contemplate. To edge 

 a bit closer and provoke a strike at my hand 



