How a New Water Witch Came to the Marsh 179 



I read for perhaps three-quarters of an hour and then put 

 the book away. It was too much like taking a radio to a ball 

 game so that I could listen to the report of another game. 

 The highlands of Wales, whose beauty had always absorbed 

 my attention, could not compete with the clear notes of the 

 robins, the sight of a busy spotted sandpiper teetering along 

 the pads, the passing of the gulls, the delicate foliage in the 

 water below, the freedom of the open air, and the cushioned 

 canoe. Together, they provided relaxation that called for 

 something other than books. It was enough just to sit and 

 wait. 



I did not turn when I first heard the noise of an oarsman 

 behind me. Small boats explored the marsh nearly every day. 

 They splashed along steadily and seldom stopped. This one 

 was an exception, for I heard it push into the bank of the 

 little bay, and then the sound of oars being pulled into the 

 boat. Quiet followed. When I looked up a few minutes later, 

 I saw a small boat and a college-age girl. Her hair was light, 

 her blue costume comfortably scanty, and her tan indicated 

 many hours in the sun. She was busily sketching the scene 

 before her. She did not turn my way and I did not speak. 



I looked at the nest and saw one egg move perceptibly— 

 undoubtedly something would happen soon. I checked my 

 camera and the canoe position again to see if conditions had 

 been altered by the movement of the sun. The ghTs concen- 

 tration on sketching had not been quite so intense as I had 

 thought, for a clear voice said: 



"If curiosity kills people like it kills cats, I'm afraid it's 

 going to be all up with me. I've tried to guess and can't de- 

 cide what you are doing. Would it break any rules to tell 

 me?" 



"I'm hoping to photograph a young bird as it comes out of 

 the egg." 



"My word," she said. "It's no wonder you are busy. Do you 

 mind if I come a little closer?" 



