NIGHT MUSIC OF THE SWAMP 



TO many, a swamp or marsh Brings only the 

 very practical thought of whether it can he 

 readily drained. Let us rejoice, however, that 

 many marshes cannot he thus easily wiped out of 

 existence, and hence they remain as isolated hits 

 of primeval wilderness, hedged about by farms 

 and furrows. The water is the life-blood of the 

 marsh, — drain it, and reed and rush, bird and 

 batrachian, perish or disappear. The marsh, to 

 him who enters it in a receptive mood, holds, 

 besides mosquitoes and stagnation, — melody, the 

 mystery of unknown waters, and the sweetness of 

 Nature undisturbedly man. 



The ideal marsh is as far as one can go from 

 civilisation. The depths of a wood holds its undis- 

 covered secrets; the mysterious call of the veery 

 lends a wildness that even to-day has not ceased to 

 pervade the old wood. There are spots overgrown 

 with fern and carpeted with velvety wet moss; 

 here also the skunk cabbage and cowslip grow 

 rank among the alders. Surely man cannot live 

 near this place — but the tinkle of a cowbell comes 

 faintly on the gentle stirring breeze — and our 

 illusion is dispelled, the charm is broken. 



But even to-day, when we push the punt through 

 the reeds from the clear river into the narrow, 



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