SECOND WEEK] July 185 



he makes no advances. As we come suddenly upon him, 

 how indignant he seems at being disturbed in his hunting. 

 Like the Indian, he is jealous of his ancient domain and 

 resents intrusion. He retires, however, throwing back to 

 us a cry of disdain. Here in the marsh is the last stand of 

 primitive nature in the settled country; here is the last 

 stronghold of the untamed. The bulrushes rise in ranks, 

 like the spears of a great army, surrounding and guarding 

 the colony of the marsh. 



There seems to be a kinship between the voices of the 

 marsh dwellers. Most of them seem to have a muddy, 

 aquatic note. The boom of the frog sounds like some 

 great stone dropped into the water; the little marsh 

 wren's song is the " babble and tinkle of water running 

 out of a silver flask." 



The blackbird seems to be the one connecting link 

 between the highlands and the lowlands. Seldom does one 

 see other citizens of the marsh in the upland. How glorious 

 is the flight of a great blue heron from one feeding-ground 

 to another! He does not tarry over the foreign territory, 

 nor does he hurry. With neck and head furled close and 

 legs straight out behind, he pursues his course, swerving 

 neither to the right nor the left. 



"Vainly the fowler's eye 



Might mark thy distant flight to do thee wrong, 

 As darkly painted on the crimson sky 

 Thy figure floats along." 



The blackbirds, however, are more neighbourly. They 

 even forage in the foreign territory, returning at night to 

 sleep. 



