THE MARSH DWELLERS 173 



of prospective pheasants. We had a leisurely lunch 

 near one of the coldest bubbling springs in the world, 

 seated on a high, dry ridge under the shade of a vast 

 black-walnut tree. After lunch we crossed quaking, 

 treacherous bogs, that lapped at our feet as we passed, 

 and reached Wolf Island. It was made up of a series 

 of rocky ridges, shaded with trees and masked by a 

 dense undergrowth. Beneath the great boulders and 

 at the base of tiny cliffs, we could trace dark holes 

 and burrows where two centuries ago the celebrated 

 pack made their home. 



Beyond the Island a tawny bird slipped out of a 

 tussock ahead of me, like a shadow. Hurrying to 

 the place, I found the perfectly rounded nest of a 

 veery thrush, lined with leaves and entirely arched 

 over by the long marsh-grass. From the brown 

 leaf-bed the four vivid blue eggs gleamed out of the 

 green grass like turquoises set in malachite. The 

 eggs of a catbird are of a deeper blue, and those of a 

 hermit thrush of a purer tone, but of all the blue 

 eggs, of robin, wood thrush, hermit thrush, bluebird, 

 cuckoo, or catbird, there is none so vivid in its color- 

 ing as that of the veery. That nest with its beautiful 

 setting stands out in my mind as a notable addition 

 to my collection of out-of-door memories. 



More searchings followed without results, until 

 the sun was westering well down the sky. Five 

 miles lay between us and clean clothes and a bath. 

 Reluctantly we left the marsh, with our bittern's 

 nest still unfound. As we approached the village, 

 we saw showing over the meadows the edge of a con- 



