THE OLD SUGAR MILL. 107 
thought to hear in a pinery, the croak of a 
green heron. I turned quickly and saw him. 
It was indeed he. What a friend is igno- 
rance, mother of all those happy surprises 
which brighten existence as they pass, like 
the butterflies of the wood. The heron was 
at home, and I was the stranger. For there 
was water near, as there is everywhere in 
Florida; and subsequently, in this very 
place, I met not only the green heron, but 
three of his relatives, —the great blue, the 
little blue, and the dainty Louisiana, more 
poetically known (and worthy to wear the 
name) as the “ Lady of the Waters.” 
On this first occasion, however, the green 
heron was speedily forgotten ; for just then 
I heard another note, unlike anything I had 
ever heard before, —as if a great Northern 
shrike had been struck with preternatural 
hoarseness, and, like so many other victims 
of the Northern winter, had betaken himself 
to a sunnier clime. I looked up. In the 
leafy top of a pine sat a boat-tailed grackle, 
splendidly iridescent, engaged in a musical 
performance which afterward became almost 
too familiar to me, but which now, as a 
novelty, was as interesting as it was gro- 
