162 ANGLING REMINISCENCES. 



huge nests of the fisher-bird, but bare they stand r 

 as if under the thraldom of winter, and disarrayed 

 by the tempest. 'Tis, at such a season as this, a 

 strange sight, out of accordance with all summer 

 things. 



Swivel But not so, Bill, with nature. From her 

 treasure-house of wonders she ever instructs us, foil- 

 ing her blooms with barrenness, and, in the centre of 

 what most rejoices, exhibiting a wreck like this, to 

 remind us of frosts, winters, and decay. There is 

 something impressive in the aspect of those rude 

 fabrics, reared by unwieldy birds, and repaired by 

 them with religious diligence, as if they were indeed 

 very sanctuaries. And so too they are, for in them 

 have been cradled many generations of the heron- 

 tribe. Through antiquity they have become sacred, 

 and sacred moreover are they, as domestic abodes 

 retreats for the young, the wearied, and the blood- 

 bestained. Hearken to the clangour of their many 

 inhabitants ! the various notes and signal-cries with 

 which they fill the air. One might imagine a military 

 encampment not far off, and these sounds to be martial 

 ones. See, there is a heron-patriarch, wheeling above 

 the others a slow air-pacer, with white crest and 

 plumage. He is a bird of authority, and, as he lowers 

 himself towards the islet, all in the garrulous divan 

 become quiet. 



May. Let us swim across, Doctor, and indulge our- 

 selves in a narrow inspection of this curiosity. 



