140 Half-Hour In a Marsh [THIRD WEEK 



as if the ground were moving, or as if we were walking on 

 the water itself. Where the grass is longer, the record of 

 some furious gale is permanently fixed swaths and rip- 

 ples seeming to roll onward, or to break into green foam. 

 The simile of a " painted ocean " is perfectly carried out. 

 There is no other substance, not even sand, which simu- 

 lates more exactly the motions of water than this grass. 



In the nearest clump of reeds we notice several red- 

 winged blackbirds, chattering nervously. A magnificent 

 male bird, black as night, and with scarlet epaulets burning 

 on his shoulders, swoops at us, while his inconspicuous 

 brownish consorts vibrate above the reeds, some with 

 grubs, some empty mouthed. They are invariable indexes 

 of what is below them. We may say with perfect assur- 

 ance that in that patch of rushes are two nests, one with 

 young; beyond are three others, all with eggs. 



We find beautiful structures, firm and round, woven 

 of coarse grasses inside and dried reeds without, hung 

 between two or three supporting stalks, or, if it is a fresh- 

 water marsh, sheltered by long, green fern fronds. The 

 eggs are worthy of their cradles pearly white in colour, 

 with scrawls and blotches of dark purple at the larger end 

 - hieroglyphics which only the blackbirds can translate. 



In another nest we find newly hatched young, looking 

 like large strawberries, their little naked bodies of a vivid 

 orange colour, with scanty gray tufts of down here and 

 there. Not far away is a nest, overflowing with five 

 young birds ready to fly, which scramble out at our ap- 

 proach and start boldly off; but as their weak wings give 

 out, they soon come to grief. We catch one and find that 



