The Buzzard of the Gear Swamp 
was unmistakable and that was also meaningful. It 
had discovered me in the distance, and while still in- 
visible to my eyes, had started down to perch upon 
that giant stub in order to watch me. Its eye had told 
it that I was not a workman upon the track, nor a 
traveler between stations. If there was a purpose to 
its movements that suggested just one thing to me, 
there was a lack of purpose in mine that meant many 
things to it. It was suspicious, and had come because 
somewhere beneath its perch lay a hollow log, the 
creature’s den, holding the two eggs or young. A 
buzzard has some soul. 
Marking the direction of the stub, and the probable 
distance, I waded into the deep underbrush, the buz- 
zard for my guide, and for my quest the stump or 
hollow log that held the creature’s nest. 
The rank ferns and ropy vines swallowed me up, 
and shut out at times even the sight of the sky. 
Nothing could be seen of the buzzard. Half an 
hour’s struggle left me climbing a pine-crested swell 
in the low bottom, and here I sighted the bird again. 
It had not moved. 
I was now in the real swamp, the old uncut forest. 
It was a land of giants; huge tulip poplar and swamp 
193 
