NIGHT MUSIC OF THE SWAMP 173 



tortuous channel of the marsh, we have left civil- 

 isation behind us. The great ranks of the cat- 

 tails shut out all view of the outside world ; the 

 distant sounds of civilisation serve only to accen- 

 tuate the isolation. It is the land of the Indian, 

 as it was before the strange white man, brought 

 from afar in great white-sailed ships, came to 

 usurp the land of the wondering natives. At any 

 moment we fancy that we may see an Indian canoe 

 silently round a bend in the channel. 



The marsh has remained unchanged since the 

 days when the Mohican Indians speared fish there. 

 We are living in a bygone time. A little green 

 heron flies across the water. How wild he is; 

 nothing has tamed him. He also is the same now 

 as always. Pie does not nest in orchard or 

 meadow, but holds himself aloof, making no con- 

 cessions to man and the ever increasing spread of 

 his civilisation. He does not come to his doors 

 for food. He can find food for himself and in 

 abundance ; he asks only to be let alone. Nor does 

 he intrude himself. Occasionally we meet him 

 along our little meadow stream, but he makes no 

 advances. As we come suddenly upon him, how 

 indignant he seems at being disturbed in his 

 hunting. Like the Indian, he is jealous of his an- 

 cient domain and resents intrusion. He retires, 

 however, throwing back to us a cry of disdain. 

 Here in the marsh is the last stand of primitive 

 nature in the settled country; here is the last 



