The Guszzard of the Wear Swamp 
not a difficult act, for the opening measured four feet 
and a half at the mouth. The air was musty inside, 
yet surprisingly free from odor. The floor was abso- 
lutely clean, but on the top and sides of the cavity 
was a thick coating of live mosquitoes, most of them 
gorged, hanging like a red-beaded tapestry over the 
walls. 
I had taken pains that the flying buzzard should 
not see me enter, for I hoped she would descend to 
look after her young. But she would take no chances 
with herself. I sat near the mouth of the hollow, 
where I could catch the fresh breeze that pulled 
at the, end, and where I had a view of a far-away 
bit of sky. Suddenly across this field of blue, as you 
have seen an infusorian scud across the field of 
your microscope, there swept a meteor of black, — 
the buzzard ! and evidently in that instant of passage, 
at a distance certainly of half a mile, she spied me 
in the log. 
I waited more than an hour longer, and when I 
tumbled out with a dozen kinds of cramps, the ma- 
ternal creature was soaring serenely far up in the 
clear, cool sky. 
