BESIDE THE MARSH. 39 
just in season to see him sweeping over the 
grass, into which he dropped the next instant. 
The tide is falling. The distant sand-hills 
are winking in the heat, but the breeze is 
deliciously cool, the very perfection of tem- 
perature, if a man is to sit still in the shade. 
It is eleven o'clock. I have a mile to go in 
the hot sun, and turn away. But first I sweep 
the line once more with my glass. Yonder 
to the south are two more blue herons stand- 
ing in the grass. Perhaps there are more 
still. I sweep the line. Yes, far, far away 
I can see four heads in a row. Heads and 
necks rise above the grass. But so far away! 
Are they birds, or only posts made alive by 
my imagination? I look again. I believe I 
was deceived. They are nothing but stakes. 
See how in a row they stand. I smile at my- 
self. Just then one of them moves, and an- 
other is pulled down suddenly into the grass. 
I smile again. ‘Ten great blue herons,” I 
say to myself. 
All this has detained me, and meantime 
the kingfisher has taken wing and gone noisily 
up the creek. The marsh hawk appears once 
more. <A killdeer’s sharp, rasping note —a 
familiar sound in St. Augustine — comes 
