THE BUZZARD OF THE BEAR SWAMP 85 



of the cavity was a thick coating of live mosquitoes, 

 most of them gorged, hanging like a red-beaded 

 tapestry over the walls. 



I had taken pains that the flying buzzard should 

 not see me enter, for I hoped she would descend to 

 look after her young. But she would take no chances 

 with herself. I sat near the mouth of the hollow, 

 where I could catch the fresh breeze that pulled 

 across the end, and where I had a view of a far-away 

 bit of sky. Suddenly, across this field of blue, there 

 swept a meteor of black the buzzard! and evidently 

 in that instant of passage, at a distance certainly of 

 half a mile, she spied me in the log. 



I waited more than an hour longer, and when I 

 tumbled out with a dozen kinds of cramps, the un- 

 worried mother was soaring serenely far up in the 

 clear, cool sky. 



