A COTTON PLANTATION. 181 
then, I climbed the fence and picked my 
way across the field. True enough, about 
the edges of the water were two or three 
solitary sandpipers, and at least half a 
dozen of the smaller yellowlegs, — two ad- 
ditions to my Florida list, — not to speak of 
a little blue heron and a green heron, the 
latter in most uncommonly green plumage. 
It was well [ had interpreted the placard 
a little generously. “The letter killeth” 
is a pretty good text in emergencies of this 
kind. So I said to myself. The herons, 
meanwhile, had taken French leave, but 
the smaller birds were less suspicious; I 
watched them at my leisure, and left them 
still feeding. 
Two days later I was there again, but it 
must be acknowledged that this time I tar- 
ried in the road till a man on horseback had 
disappeared round the next turn. It would 
have been manlier, without doubt, to pay 
no attention to him: but something told me 
that he was the cotton-planter himself, and, 
for better or worse, prudence carried the day 
with me. Finding nothing new, though the 
sandpipers and yellowlegs were still present, 
with a very handsome little blue heron and 
