NIGHT MUSIC OF THE SWAMP 177 



another the chord of contentment, to still another 

 it is the chant of the savage, just as the hoot of 

 an owl or the bark of a fox brings vividly to mind 

 the wilderness. 



Out of the night comes softly the croon of a 

 little screech owi — that cry almost as ancient as 

 the hills. It belongs with the soil beneath our 

 towns. It is the spirit of the past crying to us. 

 So the dirge of the frog is the cry of the spirit of 

 river and marshland. 



Our robins and bluebirds are of the orchard 

 and the home of man, but who can claim neigh- 

 bourship to the bittern or the bullfrog? There is 

 nothing of civilisation in the hoarse croak of the 

 great blue heron. These are all barbarians and 

 their songs are of the untamed wilderness. 



The moon rises over the hills. The mosquitoes 

 have become savage. The marsh has tolerated us 

 as long as it cares to, and we beat our retreat. 

 The night hawks swoop down and boom as they 

 pass overhead. One feels thankful that the mos- 

 quitoes are of some good in furnishing food to 

 so graceful a bird. 



A water snake glides across the channel, leav- 

 ing a silver wake in the moonlight. The frogs 

 plunk into the water as we push past. A night 

 heron rises from the margin of the river and 

 slowly flops away. The bittern booms again as 

 we row down the peaceful river, and we leave the 

 marshland to its ancient and rightful owners. 



