114 EVERYDAY ADVENTURES 
It was a hot night. The mosquitoes bit steadily, 
and the feather-bed was like a furnace seven times 
heated. All night long a whip-poor-will called his 
name under our window over three million times. 
The Banker said he counted the notes. Finally, after 
hours and hours of agony, I fell into a troubled sleep 
and was instantly awakened by the Banker, who 
said it was time to get up. We breakfasted on what 
remained of the corpse of the supper of the night 
before, which we found on the table. A few moments 
later I was morosely moving an alleged boat through 
the mists of the morass. 
Without further alliteration, let me chronicle what 
paid for all the toil, hardships and privations of the 
trip. It was the sight of a bird of burnished gold 
flashing through the curling mists. “Tweet, tweet, 
tweet,’ he called ringingly as he flew. The note 
reminded me somewhat of the loud song of the 
Kentucky warbler, and the Banker, of the note of the 
solitary sandpiper. Every now and then we caught 
tantalizing glimpses of this warbler, which never by 
any chance stands still, but flits here and there among 
the trees over the water. From the trees I constantly 
heard squeaking notes, apparently of young birds. 
They sounded everywhere, and I decided that the 
whole marsh must be full of nests. The Banker 
laughed at my ignorance and told me that this was 
the note of the blue-gray gnatcatchers — “like a 
mouse with a toothache,” as Chapman describes it. 
With great difficulty I caught a glimpse of the tiny 
bird here and there among the tree-tops, and saw 
