176 THE LOG OF THE SUN 



wrens, most domestic in character, go busily about 

 their home business ; the turtles again come up to 

 their positions, and a muskrat swims across the 

 channel. One hopes that the little colony of marsh 

 wren homes on stilts above the water, like the 

 ancient lake dwellers of Tenochtitlan, may have 

 no enemies. But the habit of building dummy 

 nests is suggestive that the wee birds are pitting 

 their wits against the cunning of some enemy, 

 and suspicion rests upon the serpent. 



As evening approaches and the shadows from 

 the bordering wood point long fingers across the 

 marsh, the blackbirds straggle back from their 

 feeding-grounds and settle, clattering, among the 

 reeds. Their clamour dies gradually away and 

 night settles down upon the marsh. 



All sounds have ceased save the booming of the 

 frogs, which but emphasises the loneliness of it 

 all. A distant whistle of a locomotive dispels the 

 idea that all the world is wilderness. The firefly 

 lamps glow along the margin of the rushes. The 

 frogs are now in full chorus, the great bulls beat- 

 ing their tom-toms and the small fry filling in the 

 chinks with shriller cries. How remote the scene 

 and how melancholy the chorus ! 



To one mind there is a quality in the frogs' 

 serenade that strikes the chord of sadness, to 



