By WALTER K. STONE 



Illustrated by the Writer and Charles Livingston Bull 



The marsh and swamps are associa- 

 ted in most minds with malaria and 

 stagnancy, not with melody and sweet- 

 ness. This is an injustice to the marsh, 

 for it leaves one side of its character — 

 the bright side — out of consideration. 

 I think, however, that there are many, 

 elderly boys who are with me in my 

 love for the marsh. I might rather say 

 a marsh, for each of us has some par- 

 ticular marsh where in his earlier boy- 

 hood days he has found, besides mos- 

 quitoes and stagnation, melody, the mys- 

 tery of unknown waters, and the sweet- 

 ness of nature undisturbed by man. 



As a boy our marsh was as far as I 

 could go from civilization. The depths 

 of the wood held its secrets, to be sure, 

 and the mysterious call of the Wilson's 

 thrush lent a wildness that has not 

 ceased to pervade the old wood even to- 

 day. There were spots overgrown with 

 fern and carpeted with thick wet moss 

 where the skunk cabbage and cowslip 

 grew rank among the alders ; where one 

 could say, surely man does not live 

 near this place— but the tinkle of the 

 cow-bell dispelled the illusion. 



Even to-day when we push the 

 "punt" through the reeds from the clear 

 river into the twisting channel of the 

 marsh, we have left civilization. The 



great ranks of the cat-tails shut out the 



view of the outside world ; the distant 

 sounds of civilization only accentuate 

 the isolation. It is the land of the In- 

 dian. At any moment we fancy that we 

 may see an Indian canoe round a bend 

 in the channel. If we do chance to 

 meet a gunner he does not look out of 

 place. 



The marsh has not changed in the 

 slightest since the Seneca Indian speared 

 fish there. It is not only as old as the 

 hills but literally much older. We are 

 living in a bygone time. A little green 

 heron flies across the water. How wild 

 he is ; nothing has tamed him. He is 

 the same now as always. He does not 

 nest in the orchard or meadow, or make 

 other concessions to Man, but holds 

 himself aloof. He does not come to our 

 doors for food. His food is still abun- 

 dant and all he asks is to be let alone. 

 There is a dignity about him which 

 seems to say, '"If I let you alone why 

 do you bother me ? I do not trespass 

 on your land, why do you come to my 

 home? Nor does he intrude himself. 

 Occasionally we meet him along our 

 little meadow stream, but he makes no 

 advances. As we meet him suddenly, 

 how indignant he seems because we have 

 disturbed his hunting. Like a Pontiac, 

 he is jealous of his ancient domain and 

 resents intrusion^ He retires, however, 



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