Music of the Wild 



darkness his notes are so startling. If a belated 

 hunter was not acquainted with the bird when the 

 deep-toned "Who, huh, whoo, who, waugh?" comes 

 rolling out of the darkness, he well might wonder 

 whether his imperative questioner used the voice 

 of bird, beast, or devil. 



It is the marsh that furnishes the croakings, 

 the chatter, the quackings, the thunder, the cries, 

 The and the screams of birdland. These notes may 

 al seem disagreeable as they are described, but they 

 are not so in realization. At times we may think 

 that Vie would be glad not to hear again the most 

 discordant of these musicians, but they are all dear 

 in their places, and were any one of them to be- 

 come extinct, something of its charm would be 

 taken from the damp, dark, weird marsh life that 

 calls us so strongly. We have learned to know 

 and understand them, and they have won our sym- 

 pathy and our love. We would miss the strident 

 rasp, the flapping of wings, and the vision of 

 long-legged awkwardness as they rise from the 

 rushes; for these are prominent parts of the at- 

 tractions we go to seek. 



As the season advances the choir of the marsh 

 is augmented, not only by the natural increase of 

 its true residents, but also by swarms of birds lov- 

 ing the water, seeds, and insects afforded ; and the 

 moment they are free from other duties they come 

 flocking here with their young. In early August 

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