THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 107 



thought to hear in a pinery, the croak of a 

 green heron. I turned quickly and saw him. 

 It was indeed he. What a friend is igno- 

 rance, mother of all those happy surprises 

 which brighten existence as they pass, like 

 the butterflies of the wood. The heron was 

 at home, and I was the stranger. For there 

 was water near, as there is everywhere in 

 Florida ; and subsequently, in this very 

 place, I met not only the green heron, but 

 three of his relatives, the great blue, the 

 little blue, and the dainty Louisiana, more 

 poetically known (and worthy to wear the 

 name) as the " Lady of the Waters." 



On this first occasion, however, the green 

 heron was speedily forgotten ; for just then 

 I heard another note, unlike anything I had 

 ever heard before, as if a great Northern 

 shrike had been struck with preternatural 

 hoarseness, and, like so many other victims 

 of the Northern winter, had betaken himself 

 to a sunnier clime. I looked up. In the 

 leafy top of a pine sat a boat-tailed grackle, 

 splendidly iridescent, engaged in a musical 

 performance which afterward became almost 

 too familiar to me, but which now, as a 

 novelty, was as interesting as it was gro- 



