182 LAND OF THE LINGERING SNOW. 



afternoon, feeling sure he would be present, be- 

 cause his mate is undoubtedly somewhere in that 

 quiet land of waving marsh grass, keeping warm 

 her four or five drab eggs in her cunningly con- 

 cealed nest. Between the wind gusts we listened 

 intently to hear his now familiar note. He was 

 not in the place where I had seen him before, 

 but at half past four, as we reached the northern 

 part of the meadow, I distinctly heard his boom- 

 ing near at hand. We crept cautiously along the 

 line of wall and bushes bounding the meadow on 

 the north. Suddenly my friend gripped me by 

 the shoulder and dragged me to the ground. A 

 pair of black ducks flew by, scudding low over 

 the bushes. We next disturbed a flock of twenty 

 crows, which rose from an old cornfield where 

 they had been feeding. Rock Meadow is a re- 

 markable rendezvous for crows, summer and 

 winter. What makes it so attractive I have 

 thus far been unable to ascertain. These crows 

 kept close watch upon us the rest of the after- 

 noon. 



Standing upon a knoll capped with a few bar- 

 berry bushes, we looked straight down the whole 

 length of Rock Meadow. The rains of the past 

 two days had given a wonderful impetus to the 

 grass, which was now high enough to hide a bit- 

 tern completely, unless he chose to raise his 

 slender neck above it. With our glasses we 



