FEATHERED RATS. 135 
at all, but a bird. Long legs he had, and a 
coral beak, a cloak of beautiful shaded browns, 
a waistcoat of exquisite gray, and on each 
flank a delicately barred patch of black and 
white. 
He was no ordinary bird. One does not 
behold his like every day, though his kind are 
common enough. No bird, indeed, is such a 
past-master in the art of hiding as is the 
water-rail, which this bird was. He may live 
near you for years and never be suspected, 
in fact. 
‘There goes a rat!’ you will exclaim. And 
the bird will be gone. 
If skulking may be called a fine art, then 
the water-rail has made it so. 
* Cro-o-o-an !’ 
It was an amazing sound—as if some one 
had uttered a low groan. It seemed literally 
to fill that stagnant, hot, silent depression 
where the pool lay. It was hard to say 
where it came from—earth or sky, or still, 
black water. 
‘Cro-o-o-an !’ again, and this time there 
could be no doubt it had emanated from 
somewhere near the bird. One expected to 
see him bolt for cover at the first alarm. He 
did not move, for the very simple reason that 
he had made the noise himself. It was an 
