THE BITTERN. 273 
The other name, Quawk, by which it is generally 
known both on the sea-coast of New Jersey, and every 
where else where the vernacular ot America prevails, is 
precisely imitative of the harsh clanging ery with which 
he rises from the reeds in which he lurks during the day 
time, and which he utters while disporting himself in 
queer clumsy gyralions in mid air, over the twilight 
marshes’ in the dusk of summer evenings; and how near- 
ly Quawk approaches to Dunkadoo, that one of my 
readers who is the least appreciative of the comparative 
value of sweet sounds, can judge as well as I can. 
In England the Bittern, who there is possessed of a 
voice between the sounds of a bassoon anda kettle-drum, 
with which he makes a most extraordinary booming 
noise, which can be heard for miles, if not for leagues, 
over the midnight marshes, a noise the most melancholy 
and unearthly that ever shot superstitious horror into 
the bosom of the belated wayfarer, who is unconscious 
of its cause, has also been designated by the country 
people from his cry, “the bog-bumper,” and the “ blut- 
tery bump”—but as our bird—the United Stateser, I 
mean, or Alleghanian, as the New York Historical So- 
ciety Associates would designate their countrymen— 
Bittern never either booms, blutters or bumps, but only 
quawks; a quawk only he must be content to remain, 
whether with the sea-coasters of New Jersey, the south- 
siders of Long Island, or my friends, the Ojibwas of 
Laxe Hurédn. 
a 
