ROCK MEADOW AT NIGHT. 



AT a quarter past six on Monday, May 11, I 

 caught a train at Porter's Station and went to 

 Belmont. A brisk walk along the Concord 

 turnpike, past blooming horse-chestnuts, and 

 through air heavy with the perfume of lilacs, over 

 Wellington Hill and down into Rock Meadow, 

 brought me just at sunset to the willows and the 

 home of the bittern. Turning into the marsh, I 

 crossed it on an old cart track to a wooded island 

 in its midst. I concealed myself among the 

 small trees on the edge of the island and swept 

 the meadow with my glass. Hundreds of frogs, 

 piping hylas, redwing blackbirds, crows, cat- 

 birds, and small birds mingled their voices in an 

 indescribable vesper chorus. Nature was alone. 

 Man's presence was unsuspected. I felt like an 

 intruder, but remembered that I had no evil in- 

 tent against anything in that great meadow. 

 While still searching with my glass for the bit- 

 tern I heard his call, and at once discovered him. 

 He was a hundred yards from me in the grass. 

 He was facing northwest, and I was nearly 



