114 EVERYDAY ADVENTURES 



It was a hot night. The mosquitoes bit steadily, 

 and the feather-bed was like a furnace seven times 

 heated. All night long a whip-poor-will called his 

 name under our window over three million times. 

 The Banker said he counted the notes. Finally, after 

 hours and hours of agony, I fell into a troubled sleep 

 and was instantly awakened by the Banker, who 

 said it was time to get up. We breakfasted on what 

 remained of the corpse of the supper of the night 

 before, which we found on the table. A few moments 

 later I was morosely moving an alleged boat through 

 the mists of the morass. 



Without further alliteration, let me chronicle what 

 paid for all the toil, hardships and privations of the 

 trip. It was the sight of a bird of burnished gold 

 flashing through the curling mists. "Tweet, tweet, 

 tweet," he called ringingly as he flew. The note 

 reminded me somewhat of the loud song of the 

 Kentucky warbler, and the Banker, of the note of the 

 solitary sandpiper. Every now and then we caught 

 tantalizing glimpses of this warbler, which never by 

 any chance stands still, but flits here and there among 

 the trees over the water. From the trees I constantly 

 heard squeaking notes, apparently of young birds. 

 They sounded everywhere, and I decided that the 

 whole marsh must be full of nests. The Banker 

 laughed at my ignorance and told me that this was 

 the note of the blue-gray gnatcatchers — "like a 

 mouse with a toothache," as Chapman describes it. 

 With great difficulty I caught a glimpse of the tiny 

 bird here and there among the tree-tops, and saw 



