THE DROWNED LANDS. 237 



wanted no dogs, for every bird on the island was raised, 

 and there was so little heavy grass we lost no dead ones. 

 Occasionally we would start one of those heavy grey 

 herons that frequent such marshes, flapping up heavily 

 from the grass, and casting his keen eye back over his 

 shoulder at the intruders; and twice we started that 

 tiny prince of the heron tribe, the smallest and most 

 beautiful of all the genus Ardea, called the Least Bit- 

 tern in the books, but which the people sometimes name 

 the Tiger Bittern, from his brindled coat and wild eye. 

 We shot them both, and Lou, wrapping them carefully 

 in her handkerchief for preserving, stovf ed them away 

 in one of the pockets of her hunting josey, as she styled 

 a close-buttening canvas jacket she wore when camp- 

 ing out. 



At last the point of the island was reached, and while 

 the men were sent back for the boats we sat down on 

 the beach and counted out thirty-six snipe. Takmg some 

 willow switches, we ran them through their bills, care- 

 fully smoothing down their ruffled plumage and washing 

 off the occasion mud, and made as beautiful six bunches 

 of game as ever delighted a fowler's eye. Even Mike 

 consented to praise, with the reserving clause that we 

 had wasted too much powder and shot on them. How 

 graceful they looked beside the green-headed mallards, 

 and the dusky ducks that were piled knee deep in the 

 boats. 



"A glorious day, well spent," said Jackson, as the 

 island on which we had been shooting dwindled in the 



