BESIDE THE MARSH. 39 



just in season to see him sweeping over the 

 grass, into which he dropped the next instant. 

 The tide is falling. The distant sand-hills 

 are winking in the heat, but the breeze is 

 deliciously cool, the very perfection of tem- 

 perature, if a man is to sit still in the shade. 

 It is eleven o'clock. I have a mile to go in 

 the hot sun, and turn away. But first I sweep 

 the line once more with my glass. Yonder 

 to the south are two more blue herons stand- 

 ing in the grass. Perhaps there are more 

 still. I sweep the line. Yes, far, far away 

 I can see four heads in a row. Heads and 

 necks rise above the grass. But so far away ! 

 Are they birds, or only posts made alive by 

 my imagination? I look again. I believe I 

 was deceived. They are nothing but stakes. 

 See how in a row they stand. I smile at my- 

 self. Just then one of them moves, and an- 

 other is pulled down suddenly into the grass. 

 I smile again. " Ten great blue herons," I 

 say to myself. 



All this has detained me, and meantime 

 the kingfisher has taken wing and gone noisily 

 up the creek. The marsh hawk appears once 

 more. A killdeer's sharp, rasping note a 

 familiar sound in St. Augustine comes 



