154 ANGLING REMINISCENCES. 



huge nests of the fisher-bird, but bare they stand, 

 as if under the thraldom of winter, and disarrayed 

 by the tempest. 'Tis, at such a season as this, a 

 strange sight, out of accordance with all summer 

 things. 



Swivel. But not so, Bill, with nature. From her 

 treasure-house of wonders she ever instructs us, 

 foiling her blooms with barrenness, and, in the cen- 

 tre of what most rejoices, exhibiting a wreck like 

 this, to remind us of frosts, winters, and decay. 

 There is something impressive in the aspect of 

 those rude fabrics, reared by unwieldy birds, and 

 repaired by them with religious diligence, as if they 

 were indeed very sanctuaries. And so too they 

 are, for in them have been cradled many generations 

 of the heron-tribe. Through antiquity they have 

 become sacred, and sacred moreover are they, 

 as domestic abodes retreats for the young, the 

 wearied, and the blood-bestained. Hearken to the 

 clangour of their many inhabitants ! the various 

 notes and signal-cries with which they fill the air. 

 One might imagine a military encampment not far 

 off, and these sounds to be martial ones. See, there 

 is a heron-patriarch, wheeling above the others a 

 slow air-pacer, with white crest and plumage. He 

 is a bird of authority, and, as he lowers himself 

 towards the islet, all in the garrulous divan become 

 quiet. 



May. Let us swim across, Doctor, and indulge 

 ourselves in a narrow inspection of this curiosity. 



