A DAY IN THE WOODS 149 



which I caught glimpses of sora rails a few days 

 ago. This time I will be more cautious in my 

 approaches. 



A cardinal is whistling, a checker-back is 

 chattering, many warblers are in the sunny tree- 

 tops, and from somewhere in the depths of the 

 forest comes the deep, oracular voice of an owl, 

 though the sun is at least half an hour high. 

 Whoo, whoo, who-who, he calls. I love to hear 

 him. On the wire fence is a yellow jessamine 

 vine, still sporting a few last blossoms, and for 

 rods together the sandy railway embankment is 

 draped with exquisite white "bramble roses," 

 the flowers of the creeping blackberry. Later 

 comers will find berries on the vines, but per- 

 haps I have the better part of the crop. 



I am well satisfied, at all events, and am still 

 feasting upon the sight when out of the tall grass 

 on my left hand comes a rail's voice the voice 

 of one crying in the wilderness. I am drawing 

 near the swamp, and make haste to cover with 

 my field-glass the spaces of open water among 

 the dead flags. Yes, there are birds one, two, 

 three, four. But they are not rails. I see as 

 much as that before I have finished my count. 

 Three of them are swimming. They are galli- 

 nules ; and when one of them turns, and the sun- 

 light strikes him, I see the red plate on his fore- 



