DRAGON’S BLOOD 233 
One of the most beautiful songs of that week I 
heard in the middle of a marsh, up to my knees in 
muck, water, and sphagnum moss. Around me grew 
wild callas, with their single curved dead-white 
petals and pussy-toes, grasses topped with what 
looked like little dabs of warm brown fur. I was 
painstakingly searching through the wet moss and 
tangled reeds for the little hidden jewel-caskets of 
the yellow-bellied flycatcher, Lincoln finch, Wilson, 
Tennessee, and yellow palm warblers. I had just 
found my fourth yellow palm warbler’s nest, all lined 
with feathers, and with its four eggs like flecked 
pink pearls, the nest itself so cunningly concealed 
in a mass of moss and marsh-grass that the discovery 
of each one seemed a miracle that would never 
happen again. 
Suddenly, out of a corner of my eye, I caught 
sight of a tiny movement under the drooping boughs 
of a little spruce half hidden in a tangle of moss. 
There crouched a little brown rabbit, not even half- 
grown, but yet old enough to have learned that 
maxim of the rabbit-folk — when in danger sit still! 
Not a muscle of his taut little body quivered even 
when I touched him, save only his soft brown nose. 
That was covered with mosquitoes, and even to save 
his life Bunny could not keep from wrinkling it. 
It was this tiny movement that had betrayed him. 
I brushed away the mosquitoes and was watching 
him hop away gratefully to another cover, when 
down from mid-sky came a rippling whinnying 
note as if from some far-away eolian harp. As I 
