220 LOVE-CALL OF THE BITTERN. 



the last, he frequently inflicts severe wounds on an ag- 

 gressor. 



In lonely fenny districts the bittern is still to be met 

 with. It is sunset, let us suppose, and you are wending 

 your way across some dreary moor, or in the neighbour- 

 hood of some sequestered marsh. You hear the rustle of 

 the reeds as the night-wind rises; but above their low 

 susurrus you are conscious of a shorter, sharper rustle, 

 with a rushing sound like the sweep of a powerful wing. 

 You survey the horizon, but no bird is visible. Then 

 comes another rustle of the wing, and another, and yet 

 another ; but still you see nothing. It is eerie, you feel, 

 and uncanny, and perhaps your heart, in spite of yourself, 

 quickens its beat, and a sense of being haunted grows upon 

 you. Onward you stride, and your speed is certainly 

 increased, when all at once a burst of wild, strange laugh- 

 ter rings in your ears, and is carried by the wind to many 

 an echo ; a curious medley of sound, like the neigh of a 

 horse and the bellow of a bull combined, but somewhat 

 subdued. 



A moment's reflection tells you that you are listening 

 to the love-call of the bittern ; and harsh and strange as 

 it seems, you discover, on further hearing, that it is not 

 without a kind of cadence or modulation. While uttering 

 it, the bird performs a spiral ascending flight ; expanding 

 his voice as the curves widen, and lowering it as they 

 contract ; timing his movements, as it were, to his song. 

 In his style of flying, as Mudie says, there is something 

 which is as fine as it is peculiar. To observe it thoroughly, 

 the spectator should lie prone on his back ; and in that 



