A Bittern. 217 



fro, seem to trace designs upon the blue dome 

 of the sky. A whispering in the reeds and tall 

 grasses ; a faint murmuring of the waters ; yonder, 

 across the broad water-meadow, a yellow haze hid- 

 ing the elms. 



In the nooks and corners on the left side of the 

 mead the hemlock rears its sickly-looking stem ; the 

 mound is broad and high, and thickly covered with 

 grasses, for the most part dead and dry. These form 

 a warm cover for the fox : there is usually one hiding 

 somewhere here, the mead being so quiet. Where 

 the ground is often flooded watercress has spread 

 out into the grass, growing so profusely that now 

 the water is low it might be mown by the scythe. 

 And everywhere in their season, the beautiful forget- 

 me-nots nestle on the shores among the flags, where 

 the water, running slower at the edge, lingers to kiss 

 their feet. 



Once, some five-and-twenty years ago, a sports- 

 man startled a great bird out of the spot where the 

 streams join, and shot it, thinking it was a heron. 

 But seeing that it was no common heron, he had it 

 examined, and it was found to be a bittern, and as 

 such was carefully preserved. It was the last visit 

 of bitterns to the place ; even then they were so rare 

 as not to be recognized : now the progress of agri- 

 culture has entirely banished them. 



