Cypress Swamps 103 
blooms on the rail fences, and peach trees by 
every cabin, the cardinal lifts up that voice 
of the troubadour, so gay, so debonair. As 
one emerges from the dismal shades, his song 
greets the ear from that brighter region 
where he is at home. It was here that I 
found the nest of the blue-grey gnatcatcher 
early in March—one of the most beautiful of 
all bird-nests, cupshaped and decorated with 
lichens. And it was here that the hooded 
warbler first presented himself to view: a 
memorable encounter, for if the swamp had 
yielded nothing else, this in itself was payment 
enough. Never before or since have I seen 
as many pine warblers as trilled an the pine- 
covered knolls. They dominated the woods 
as did the red-bellied woodpecker the swamp. 
Nowhere else could one go dry shod, for even 
the country roads were under water and it 
was necessary to proceed along the little single 
plank walks elevated on posts which are pro- 
vided for the wayfarer where the ground is 
low, or lacking this, to wade. On these high 
knolls, the American holly becomes a tree two 
feet and more in diameter. 
The silent river was long in flood, and morn- 
ing and evening I paddled upon its muddy 
waters, sometimes slipping into the grey 
