CHAPTER LXV 



THE HERON 



AN old cock heron stood alone on the silent snow-field 

 beneath a grey sky, the setting sun burnishing his fierce 

 warrior head sable plumed, and flashed from his silver- 

 grey back, spangled with sable epaulettes, that were lost in 

 his pied and plumed cuirass. Patches of milk-white melting 

 into the snow suggested his neck and thighs, and dark lines 

 outlined his sharp dagger-beak and stilt-legs ; for the heron 

 is a true son of the Fens. 



Not another bird was to be seen on that wintry eventide. 

 Frank, however, as the fenmen call him, was not alone. A 

 rising and falling patch of colour over the snow-field had 

 attracted his attention. A hare was leaping across the 

 white fields, making a dining journey to a planting a mile 

 away. After gazing sharply at the hare till it reached an 

 opening in a hedgerow on the upland, Frank's long neck 

 doubled and he drew himself together. He was cold, for 

 he and his kind feel the cold keenly, and yet they linger 

 with us, faithful to the marshland. 



As the blackthorn bursts into bloom, Frank goes off to 

 his fir-trees by Reedham (for there is a heronry there, 

 though few persons know it), or, more careless, builds in the 

 low willows by the river, and he is rarer on the marsh- 

 lands until August, when he comes with his young to the 

 broads. Just before harvest you may hear the heron all night 

 calling hoarsely, " Frank, Frank ; " also the shriller cries of 

 the young as they hunt for eels in the dikes or by the 

 mere-side, scarce a foot deep, leaving their dung on the soft 



