IN THE PONKAPOAG BOGS 



work his wheezy, dislocated wooden 

 pump, a cry as awkward and disconso- 

 late as the bird. 



The muskrats breed in the bog, the 

 bittern had his grassy nest there, and a 

 myriad blackbirds have made the low 

 bushes vocal with their cheery whistles 

 all summer. They are flocking now, 

 getting the young birds in training for 

 the long flight south, but they still hang 

 about the bog and they still whistle 

 merrily. Surely it is not environment 

 that makes temperament. Bittern and 

 blackbird both frequent bogs, yet the 

 bittern is a lonely misanthrope, whom I 

 more than half suspect of being melan- 

 choly mad, while the blackbird is as 

 cheery and as fond of his fellows as a 

 candidate. When you hear his whistle 

 you half expect him to light on a 

 thwart, hand you a cigar, and ask after 



