38 BESIDE THE MARSH. 
Another buzzard, another marsh hawk, 
another yellow butterfly, and then a smaller 
one, darker, almost orange. It passes too 
quickly over the creek and away. The marsh 
hawk comes nearer, and I see the strong yel- 
low tinge of his plumage, especially under- 
neath. He will grow handsomer as he grows 
older. A pity the same could not be true of 
men. Behind me are sharp cries of titlarks. 
From the direction of the river come frequent 
reports of guns. Somebody is doing his best 
to be happy! Allatonce I prick up my ears. 
From the grass just across the creek rises the 
brief, hurried song of a long-billed marsh 
wren. So he is in Florida, is he? Already 
I have heard confused noises which I feel 
sure are the work of rails of some kind. No 
doubt there is abundant life concealed in 
those acres on acres of close grass. 
The heron and the kingfisher are still quiet. 
Their morning hunt was successful, and for 
to-day Fate cannot harm them. A buzzard, 
with nervous, rustling beats, goes directly 
above the low cedar under which I am rest- 
ing. 
At last, after a siesta of two hours, the 
heron has changed his place. I looked up 
