THE WOODCOCK. 31 



Then, when the air began to be fragrant with 

 dittany and balm, and the melancholy monotone 

 of the cuckoo and the plaintive squeak of the 

 peewee made most of the music of the woods, 

 what lovelier sight than that haze of rosewood 

 colors circling upward through the shade with 

 whistling wing, and winding out of an opening 

 so swiftly that eye and hand were rarely quick 

 enough to catch it? All that held this bird was 

 enchanted ground at this time of year. What 

 mattered musquitoes, or steaming heat, or cob- 

 webs across every opening in the woods, as long 

 as there was a bit of damp ground in the dry 

 spell of summer? And cheerfully we floundered 

 through sticky mud and calamus and cat-tails to 

 see that long bill clear their tops once more, and 

 wheel away for the bank of willows in whose 

 depths it would surely fade unless both hand and 

 eye were quick as well as true. 



Later on the meadows were aflame with the 

 butterfly-weed, and the rose-mallow tinged the 

 marshes with soft pink; the towering bobolink 

 no longer poured a flood of song, but clamorous 

 blackbirds began to gather into flocks. Then 

 what a prize a single woodcock often seemed, 



