184 Music of the Swamp [SECOND WEEK 



mysterious call of the veery lends a wildness that even 

 to-day has not ceased to pervade the old wood. There 

 are spots overgrown with fern and carpeted with velvety 

 wet moss; here also the skunk cabbage and cowslip grow 

 rank among the alders. Surely man cannot live near this 

 place but the tinkle of a cowbell comes faintly on the 

 gentle stirring breeze and our illusion is dispelled, the 

 charm is broken. 



But even to-day, when we push the punt through the 

 reeds from the clear river into the narrow, tortuous channel 

 of the marsh, we have left civilisation behind us. The 

 great ranks of the cat-tails shut out all view of the outside 

 world; the distant sounds of civilisation serve only to 

 accentuate the isolation. It is the land of the Indian, as 

 it was before the strange white man, brought from afar 

 in great white-sailed ships, came to usurp the land of the 

 wondering natives. At any moment we fancy that we 

 may see an Indian canoe silently round a bend in the 

 channel. 



The marsh has remained unchanged since the days 

 when the Mohican Indians speared fish there. We are 

 living in a bygone time. A little green heron flies across 

 the water. How wild he is; nothing has tamed him. He 

 also is the same now as always. He does not nest in 

 orchard or meadow, but holds himself aloof, making no 

 concessions to man and the ever increasing spread of his 

 civilisation. He does not come to his doors for food. 

 He can find food for himself and in abundance; he asks 

 only to be let alone. Nor does he intrude himself. Occa- 

 sionally we meet him along our little meadow stream, but 



