A Pond. 239 
sailing thither from the shallow lake (one of whose 
creeks approaches the ash copse), he almost always 
rests here before descending to the field to take a 
good look round. The heron is a most suspicious 
bird: when he alights in’ the water meadows here he 
stalks about in the very middle of the great field, far 
out of reach of the gun. If ever he ventures to the 
brook, it is not till after a careful survey from the fir 
tree, his tower of observation; and, when in the 
brook, his long neck is every now and then extended, 
that he may gaze above the banks. 
By the gateway, reached by crossing a rude 
bridge for the waggons, wild hops festoon the 
thickets. Behind the maple bushes in the corner the 
water of the pond, overhung with willow, is dark— 
almost black in the depth of shadow. Out of it a 
narrow and swift current runs into that slow straight 
brook which bounds the right side of the meadow. 
Herein the long grass and rushes growing luxuriantly 
between the underwood lurk the moorhens, building 
their nests on bunches of rushes against the bank and 
almost level with the water. Though but barely 
hatched, and chips of shell clinging to their backs, 
the tiny fledglings swim at once if alarmed. When 
a little older they creep about on the miniature 
terraces formed along the banks by the constant 
running to and fro of water-rats, or stand on a broken 
branch bent down by its own weight into the water, 
