A HALF-HOUR IN A MARSH 135 



out. There is no other substance, not even sand, 

 which simulates more exactly the motions of wa- 

 ter than this grass. 



In the nearest clump of reeds we notice several 

 red-winged blackbirds, chattering nervously. A 

 magnificent male bird, black as night, and with 

 scarlet epaulets burning on his shoulders, swoops 

 at us, while his inconspicuous brownish consorts 

 vibrate above the reeds, some with grubs, some 

 empty mouthed. They are invariable indexes of 

 what is below them. We may say with perfect 

 assurance that in that patch of rushes are two 

 nests, one with young; beyond are three others, 

 all with eggs. 



We find beautiful structures, firm and round, 

 woven of coarse grasses inside and dried reeds 

 without, hung between two or three supporting 

 stalks, or, if it is a fresh-water marsh, sheltered 

 by long, green fern fronds. The eggs are worthy 

 of their cradles — pearly white in colour, with 

 scrawls and blotches of dark purple at the larger 

 end — hieroglyphics which only the blackbirds can 

 translate. 



In another nest we find newly hatched young, 

 looking like large strawberries, their little naked 

 bodies of a vivid orange colour, with scanty gray 

 tufts of down here and there. Not far away is a 

 nest, overflowing with five young birds ready to 

 fly, which scramble out at our approach and start 

 boldly off; but as their weak wings give out, they 



