DRAGON'S BLOOD 233 



One of the most beautiful songs of that week I 

 heard in the middle of a marsh, up to my knees in 

 muck, water, and sphagnum moss. Around me grew 

 wild callas, with their single curved dead-white 

 petals and pussy-toes, grasses topped with what 

 looked like little dabs of warm brown fur. I was 

 painstakingly searching through the wet moss and 

 tangled reeds for the little hidden jewel-caskets of 

 the yellow-bellied flycatcher, Lincoln finch, Wilson, 

 Tennessee, and yellow palm warblers. I had just 

 found my fourth yellow palm warbler's nest, all lined 

 with feathers, and with its four eggs like flecked 

 pink pearls, the nest itself so cunningly concealed 

 in a mass of moss and marsh-grass that the discovery 

 of each one seemed a miracle that would never 

 happen again. 



Suddenly, out of a corner of my eye, I caught 

 sight of a tiny movement under the drooping boughs 

 of a little spruce half hidden in a tangle of moss. 

 There crouched a little brown rabbit, not even half- 

 grown, but yet old enough to have learned that 

 maxim of the rabbit-folk — when in danger sit still ! 

 Not a muscle of his taut little body quivered even 

 when I touched him, save only his soft brown nose. 

 That was covered with mosquitoes, and even to save 

 his life Bunny could not keep from wrinkling it. 

 It was this tiny movement that had betrayed him. 

 I brushed away the mosquitoes and was watching 

 him hop away gratefully to another cover, when 

 down from mid-sky came a rippling whinnying 

 note as if from some far-away seolian harp. As I 



