i88 Music of the Swamp [SECOND WEEK 



To one mind there is a quality in the frogs' serenade 

 that strikes the chord of sadness, to another the chord of 

 contentment, to still another it is the chant of the savage, 

 just as the hoot of an owl or the bark of a fox brings vividly 

 to mind the wilderness. 



Out of the night comes softly the croon of a little 

 screech owl that cry almost as ancient as the hills. It 

 belongs with the soil beneath our towns. It is the spirit 

 of the past crying to us. So the dirge of the frog is the 

 cry of the spirit of river and marshland. 



Our robins and bluebirds are of the orchard and the 

 home of man, but who can claim neighbourship to the 

 bittern or the bullfrog? There is nothing of civilisation 

 in the hoarse croak of the great blue heron. These are 

 all barbarians and their songs are of the untamed wilder- 

 ness. 



The moon rises over the hills. The mosquitoes have 

 become savage. The marsh has tolerated us as long as it 

 cares to, and we beat our retreat. The night hawks swoop 

 down and boom as they pass overhead. One feels thankful 

 that the mosquitoes are of some good in furnishing food 

 to so graceful a bird. 



A water snake glides across the channel, leaving a 

 silver wake in the moonlight. The frogs plunk into the 

 water as we push past. A night heron rises from the 

 margin of the river and slowly flops away. The bittern 

 booms again as we row down the peaceful river, and we 

 leave the marshland to its ancient and rightful owners. 



