212 WITHIN AN HOUR OF LONDON TOWN. 



close to the trunk of the tree, no one would take 

 him for a bird, unless they had seen him fly up 

 there, or had observed him move on his perch. 



There is a blue-grey light under all firs when the 

 sun shines on them. It creeps and quivers down 

 the warm red trunks, softly wandering, now here 

 now there as the sunlight falls on the foliage, peep- 

 ing through it in places. It is all a warm purple- 

 grey in the shadows. So is the heron. As he 

 stands there on one leg, though to all appearance 

 near enough for you to stroke his feathers, he seems 

 only a shadowy form. Never before in my life have 

 I seen him in such perfect mimicry of plumage, so 

 conformed to his natural surroundings, as I see him 

 just now. He soon wakes up again, glides along 

 the limb, and floats down, light as a single feather, 

 to our side of the stream. 



And now I have him to perfection. Who cares 

 for wet feet when his blood runs hotly as mine 

 does now ! I can see the movement of his fish- 

 spear of a bill, which he gently moves as he glides 

 for his movement is too smooth to be called 

 walking. All at once, almost with the rapidity 

 of thought, up goes his crest, out go his neck and 



