THE BLUE HERON 



that I held the bulb in my hand and must squeeze it to secure the 

 picture. 



In a flash I shot in the slide, whirled over the holder, set the 

 shutter and drew the slide. The bird had turned and moved sev- 

 eral feet toward me, and 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 focused on the spot 

 where he had been. It seemed sufficiently sharp for a good pic- 

 ture. 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 be improved. The mill stood in a little bay. 

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

 swept up close to them, out in the water a couple of runaway logs 

 were bobbing in the sunlight, and away 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 his head sidewise, 

 with its 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 and splashing of water and remembered 

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

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

 ute too soon. I pulled well out into the lake just in time to clear 

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

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

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

 reach on the seat before me and started back down the river. 



The day had grown a little warmer, but that was made up for 



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