150 THE GREAT BLUE HERON 



trailing rigidly behind* It seems a strange hope that 

 impels him where the persistent grip of the frost 

 is stronger and stronger, for the slowly awakening 

 landscape over which he is passing is not yet prepared 

 to serve his many needs. The eye follows him as his 

 great, distended wings grow smaller, and he seems in 

 the deceiving perspective to gradually descend toward 

 the northern horizon. On and on he goes, responding 

 to the impelling urge until he becomes an uncertain 

 spot on the darkening grey into which he slowly 

 vanishes. 



The varied panorama of his life passes in fancy as 

 he disappears in the northern distance. The months of 

 indolent ease he spent among the rich verdure of the 

 southern swamps, protected from intrusion by their 

 impenetrable growths and the poisons of their vapour 

 and their ephemeral life. There in the richness of 

 solitude, wading slowly through the stagnant water, 

 his long white neck made a clear outline against the 

 dark green of the perpetual shades either in the grace- 

 ful curve of repose or the tall, strained rigidity of 

 alarm. The narrow, pendent feathers of his breast, 

 reaching the surface of the water as he wades, are 

 supposed to attract the fish and amphibians on which 

 he feeds. But whether these victims are attracted or 

 fascinated, there is death in the swift stroke of that 

 great, powerful yellow beak. There is no more 

 graceful bird than the Blue Heron, and nature seems 



