THE MARSH DWELLERS 173 
of prospective pheasants. We had a leisurely lunch 
near one of the coldest bubbling springs in the world, 
seated on a high, dry ridge under the shade of a vast 
black-walnut tree. After lunch we crossed quaking, 
treacherous bogs, that lapped at our feet as we passed, 
and reached Wolf Island. It was made up of a series 
of rocky ridges, shaded with trees and masked by a 
dense undergrowth. Beneath the great boulders and 
at the base of tiny cliffs, we could trace dark holes 
and burrows where two centuries ago the celebrated 
pack made their home. 
Beyond the Island a tawny bird slipped out of a 
tussock ahead of me, like a shadow. Hurrying to 
the place, I found the perfectly rounded nest of a 
veery thrush, lined with leaves and entirely arched 
over by the long marsh-grass. From the brown 
leaf-bed the four vivid blue eggs gleamed out of the 
green grass like turquoises set in malachite. The 
eggs of a catbird are of a deeper blue, and those of a 
hermit thrush of a purer tone, but of all the blue 
eggs, of robin, wood thrush, hermit thrush, bluebird, 
cuckoo, or catbird, there is none so vivid in its color- 
ing as that of the veery. That nest with its beautiful 
setting stands out in my mind as a notable addition 
to my collection of out-of-door memories. 
More searchings followed without results, until 
the sun was westering well down the sky. Five 
miles lay between us and clean clothes and a bath. 
Reluctantly we left the marsh, with our bittern’s 
nest still unfound. As we approached the village, 
we saw showing over the meadows the edge of a con- 
