Herons and Bitterns 



among the rushes. Living where no rubber boot may follow 

 them through the muck, they usually remain unknown to many 

 human neighbors, unless some sluggish stream running through 

 their territory will float a skiff and a bird student within field- 

 glass range. These bitterns are by no means the solitary hermits 

 the larger species are. Colonies of a dozen or more couples are 

 found nesting within the same acre. 



However retiring in habits by preference, the least bitterns 

 show no especial shyness when approached. Mr. Chamberlain 

 tells of a small colony that spend the summer within a stone's 

 throw of a street-car track and a playground in the busiest part 

 of Brookline, near Boston — probably the home their ancestors 

 were reared in ; for all the birds of this family show marked 

 respect and attachment for an old homestead. In Westchester 

 County, New York, there is a certain sluggish river whose reedy 

 shores contain twenty nests or more within sight of a well-worn 

 foot bridge. Here, looking down into the sedges, the birds are 

 seen running about through the jungle, with their necks out- 

 stretched and their heads lowered, as they hunt for food — small 

 minnows, or young frogs and tadpoles, hzards, and bugs 

 winged and crawling. Disturb the birds, and they take wing at 

 once, with a harsh, croaking note, qua, and flapping their wings 

 slowly and heavily, retreat no farther than to a denser part of the 

 marsh, into which they drop, and are lost in the rushes. 



Dr. Abbott writes of a bittern's nest that he found near 

 Poaetquissings Creek — that mine of nature's treasures he has 

 opened for the delight of easy-chair naturalists. "Such finds 

 make red-letter days," he says. "The nest itself was a loosely 

 woven mat of twigs and grass, yet strong enough to be lifted 

 from the tuft of bulrush upon which it rested. There were 

 a single dirty blue white egg and four fuzzy baby bitterns not 

 a week old. They were clad in pale buff down, scantily dusted 

 over them, and an abundance of straight white hairs as long 

 as their bodies. These young birds were far less awkward, 

 even now, than herons of the same or even greater age. As 

 I took one up, it thrust its opened beak at me, but, becoming 

 quickly reconciled, seemed to take pleasure in the warmth of my 

 hand. At times it uttered a peculiarly clear, fifelike cry . . . free 

 from every trace of harshness." 



Near sunset and in the twilight of night and morning is 



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