WATER-BIRD WAIFS 



the old bird will fly away and then return and perch a 

 little way off and say all sorts of unutterable things in 

 the uncouth heron-language. 



In a certain swamp near my home several pairs of 

 Green Heron usually nest. The place is a tract of 

 alder bushes overflowed from the pond. The water 

 is from knee to waist-deep, and the bushes grow out 

 of the water. Once I undertook to photograph a 

 Green Heron on a nest which was favorably situated, 

 very low down. I set up the tripod near by, under the 

 next bush, tied the focus-cloth about the top to suggest 

 a camera, decked it with leaves, and left it over night, 

 for the heron to become accustomed to it. Next 

 morning I found her on the nest all right, so I sub- 

 stituted my camera for the cloth, covered and arranged 

 it with thread attachment, and then hid about thirty 

 yards away between three tree sprouts which grew 

 from a stump, a nice little island nook. After about 

 half an hour's wait, the heron came sneaking back, 

 climbing almost parrot-like from bush to bush. All the 

 time she was jerking her little tail in such a nervous, 

 comical fashion that I felt like laughing right out, 

 which, of course, would not do if I was to get a photo- 

 graph. After some hesitation she stepped into the 

 nest and settled down, but the instant I drew in my 

 slack of thread she saw it move, and departed in as 

 great terror as though I had fired a cannon. After 

 awhile she plucked up courage to return, and this time 

 I saw to it that the shutter would spring the instant I 



