234: RAMBLES ABOUT HOME. 



brief field-notes, more than ever fully convince me that 

 these herons, like all our birds, depend upon and owe their 

 success in life more to the quality of their reasoning power 

 than they do to the mere operations of blind instinct. 



While the vocal efforts of the herons can not be com- 

 mended for their melody, there is, nevertheless, a wealth 

 of suggestiveness in the hoarse quok ! of the night-heron, 

 as it slowly wings its way above you in the dim twilight. 

 The " booming " of the great bittern is by no means an 

 unpleasant sound, except perhaps to those who have no 

 ear for Nature's varied voices, and no eye for beauty, as 

 it is found in precincts man has not marred by his pres- 

 ence. Perhaps nowhere, in this sadly artificial region 

 where I chance to dwell, is there left a trace of primitive 

 times so pleasant to contemplate as the meadow and 

 creek-side, when, in the gloaming, the herons come from 

 their noonday haunts, and fishing in the still waters, or 

 flying from point to point above my head, they call to 

 each other, and express perhaps the whole range of their 

 communicable thoughts in the one, unvarying, monoto- 

 nous note, quok ! 



The scarcely less harsh cry of the green heron, too, is 

 not an unwelcome sound to me, and I ahvays greet with 

 pleasure the first time that I hear it, in the early spring. 



A few words, in conclusion, about the nesting and 

 other habits of this well-known bird. Certainly it must 

 be well known, for no bird in the whole fauna seems to 

 be so abundantly endowed with " heaps upon heaps " of 

 meaningless names. Never yet have I heard it called a 

 green heron, heron, or little heron ; but always, " poke," 

 " fly-up-the-creek," " chuckle-head," " bastard wood-cock," 

 and so, ad infinitum. Why, indeed, these birds should 

 be singled out in this manner, and ridiculed by a multi- 

 plicity of defamatory names, I have yet to learn. 



