THE BLUE HERON 



recovered from iny surprise enough to remember that I held the 

 bulb in my hand and must squeeze it to secure the picture. 



Hurriedly I shoved in the slide, whirled over the holder, set the 

 shutter and drew the slide again. The bird had turned and moved 

 several feet toward me, coming more in the open. I set the focus 

 by scale and snapped again. That time in my eagerness I moved 

 out too far, he saw me and away he swept, several of his fellows 

 nearest following. I put away the plates and tested my focus on 

 the spot where he had been. It seemed sufficiently sharp for a 

 fine picture. Developing the plate proved that it was almost as 

 nice a piece of work as I could have done if blest with plenty of 

 time. 



Then I glanced over my background. For a Heron picture it 

 scarcely could have been improved. The mill stood in a small 

 bay. Behind it rushes grew in a tangled mass, the body of the 

 lake crept close to them, out in the water a couple of runaway 

 logs were bobbing in the sunlight, while in the distance a far 

 shore showed faintly. There was only one thing to keep me from 

 having fine natural-history pictures. The bird was dripping with 

 the heavy dew of the swamp; but if I had reproduced < his head 

 sidewise, with his bill and one eye, and the frog going down, 

 surely that would not hurt my picture. In fact, thinking it over, 

 it seemed to add to the naturalness of it and help portray the 

 damp, swampy atmosphere. 



Then I heard voices, the splashing of water and remembered 

 that I was alone. I caught up my tripod and carrying case, 

 tumbled them into my boat, pushed off and jumped in, not a 

 minute too soon. I pulled into the lake barely in time to miss a 

 crew of half a dozen men coming around the shore driving a log 

 float and gathering up stray timber. When far away from the 

 logs I put away my paraphernalia, set a small hand-camera in 

 reach on the seat before me and started down the fiver. 



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