THE BUZZARD OF THE BEAR SWAMP 77 



of it, ready for the first time to cross its dark bor- 

 ders and find the buzzard's nest. 



Now here at last I found myself, looking down 

 over the largest, least trod, deepest-tangled swamp 

 in southern New Jersey wide, gloomy, silent, and 

 to me, for I still thought of it as I used to when 

 a child, to me, a mysterious realm of black streams, 

 hollow trees, animal trails, and haunting shapes, 

 presided over by this great bird, the turkey buzzard. 



For he was never mere bird to me, but some kind 

 of spirit. He stood to me for what was far off, mys- 

 terious, secret, and unapproachable in the deep, dark 

 swamp ; and, in the sky, so wide were his wings, so 

 majestic the sweep of his flight, he had always 

 stirred me, caused me to hold my breath and wish 

 myself to fly. 



No other bird did I so much miss from my New 

 England skies when I came here to live. Only the 

 other day, standing in the heart of Boston, I glanced 

 up and saw, sailing at a far height against the bil- 

 lowy clouds, an aeroplane ; and what should I think 

 of but the flight of the vulture, so like the steady 

 wings of the great bird seemed the steady wings of 

 this great monoplane far off against the sky. 



And so you begin to understand why I had come 

 back after so many years to the swamp, and why I 

 wanted to see the nest of this strange bird that had 

 been flying, flying forever in my imagination and 

 in my sky. But my good uncle, whom I was visit- 



