A DAY IN THE WOODS 149 



which I caught gKmpses of sora rails a few days 

 ago. This time I will be more cautious in my 

 approaches. 



A cardinal is whistling, a checker-back is 

 chattering, many warblers are in the sunny tree- 

 tops, and from somewhere in the depths of the 

 forest comes the deep, oracular voice of an owl, 

 though the sun is at least half an hour high. 

 WTioo, whoo, who-who, he calls. I love to hear 

 him. On the wire fence is a yellow jessamine 

 vine, still sporting a few last blossoms, and for 

 rods together the sandy railway embankment is 

 draped with exquisite white " bramble roses," 

 the flowers of the creeping blackberry. Later 

 comers vdll find berries on the vines, but per- 

 haps I have the better part of the crop. 



I am weU satisfied, at all events, and am stUl 

 feasting upon the sight when out of the tall grass 

 on my left hand comes a rail's voice — the voice 

 of one crying in the wilderness. I am drawing 

 near the swamp, and make haste to cover with 

 my field-glass the spaces of open water among 

 the dead flags. Yes, there are birds — one, two, 

 three, four. But they are not rails. I see as 

 much as that before I have finished my count. 

 Three of them are swimming. They are galli- 

 nules ; and when one of them turns, and the sun- 

 light strikes him, I see the red plate on his fore- 



