38 BESIDE THE MARSH. 



Another buzzard, another marsh hawk, 

 another yellow butterfly, and then a smaller 

 one, darker, almost orange. It passes too 

 quickly over the creek and away. The marsh 

 hawk conies nearer, and I see the strong yel- 

 low tinge of his plumage, especially under- 

 neath. He will grow handsomer as he grows 

 older. A pity the same could not be true of 

 men. Behind me are sharp cries of titlarks. 

 From the direction of the river come frequent 

 reports of guns. Somebody is doing his best 

 to be happy ! All at once I prick up my ears. 

 From the grass just across the creek rises the 

 brief, hurried song of a long-billed marsh 

 wren. So he is in Florida, is he ? Already 

 I have heard confused noises which I feel 

 sure are the work of rails of some kind. No 

 doubt there is abundant life concealed in 

 those acres on acres of close grass. 



The heron and the kingfisher are still quiet. 

 Their morning hunt was successful, and for 

 to-day Fate cannot harm them. A buzzard, 

 with nervous, rustling beats, goes directly 

 above the low cedar under which I am rest- 

 ing. 



At last, after a siesta of two hours, the 

 heron has changed his place. I looked up 



