Where the frogs bask and pray to their sun gods 



throwing back a cry of disdain. Here 

 is the last stand of primitive nature in 

 the settled country. Here is the last 

 stronghold of the untamed. The bul- 

 rushes rise in ranks like the spears of 

 an army surrounding and guarding the 

 colony of the marsh. What a bold 

 stand she is making. She lets mar. 

 cross her reservation, but camp? never! 

 There seems to be a kinship between 

 the voices of marsh dwellers. Most 

 of them seem, to my ear, to have a 

 muddy aquative note. The frog's boom 



sounds, like some great stone dropped 

 into the water. The little marsh wren's 

 song is the babble and tinkle of water 

 running out of a silver flask. The 

 heron's cry seem to have contracted a 

 hoarseness from the damp. The notes 

 of all of the marsh birds have a muddv 

 or liquid sound which is characteristic, 

 and seems in accord with their sur- 

 roundings. 



The blackbird seems to be the one 

 connecting link between the highlands 

 and lowlands, One sees other citizens 



