ing and floating in patches down-stream, its over- 

 sweet breath hanging heavy in the morning mist. 

 My nose was in the air all the way for magnolias 

 and water-lilies, yet never a whiff from either 

 shore, so particular, so unaccountably notional 

 are some of the high-caste flowers with regard 

 to their homes. 



The skiff edged slowly past the first of the 

 islands, a mere hummock about a yard square, 

 and was turning a sharp bend farther up, when 

 I thought I had a glimpse of yellowish wings, a 

 mere guess of a bird shadow, dropping among the 

 dense maple saplings and elder of the islet. 



Had I seen or simply imagined' something! 

 If I had seen wings, then they were not those of 

 the thrasher,— the first bird that came to mind, — 

 for they slipped, sank, dropped through the 

 bushes, with just a hint of dodging in their 

 movement, not exactly as a thrasher would 

 have moved. 



Drifting noiselessly back, I searched the tangle 

 and must have been looking directly at the bird 

 several seconds before cutting it out from the 

 stalks and branches. It was a least bittern, a 

 female. She was clinging to a perpendicular 

 [130] 



