fjlfit 



» 







. ' : 



■^miw :p ■- ■■■■- 



■'.:' ■ ■■;'■... 



The fire-fly lamps glow along the rushes 



take up the trend of their business 

 where it was interrupted. 



All about the lily-pads make a green 

 carpet on which the frogs bask and 

 pray to their sun gods. The little sora 

 rail again runs along the lily-pads, look- 

 ing for his food in the form of small 

 snails. The blackbirds and wrens go 

 about their home business, the turtles 

 again come up to their positions, and a 

 muskrat swims across the channel. 



A squeal and splash — a shining fold 

 above the lily-pads — and we have 

 viewed <a marshland tragedy with the 

 luckless frog and villain black snake as 

 chief actors. One hopes that the little 

 colony of marsh wren homes on stilts 

 above the water, like the ancient lake 

 dwellers of Venezuela, have no enemies 

 — that Sir Black Snake is satiated with 

 the hapless frog — but fear must lurk, or 

 why do they bar the doors of their snug 

 cottages ? This curiosity and the habit 

 of building dummy nests is proof that 

 the wee birds are pitting their wits 

 against the cunning of some enemy and 

 suspicion rests on the serpent. 



As evening approaches and the shad- 



ows from the bordering woodland point 

 long fingers across the marsh, the black- 

 birds straggle back from their feeding 

 grounds and settle, clattering, among 

 the reeds. Their clattering gradually 

 dies down and night settles on the 

 marsh. Night on the lowlands is in- 

 deed beautiful. All sounds have ceased 

 save the booming of the frogs, which 

 only accentuate the loneliness of it all. 

 Only the distant whistle of a locomo- 

 tive dispels the idea that it is wilder- 

 ness. The fire-fly lamps glow along the 



margin of the rushes. 



Che frogs are 



in full chorus now. The great bulls 

 beat their tomtoms and the small fry 

 fill in the chinks with shriller cries. 

 How remote the scene and how savage 

 the chorus ! 



There is a quality in the frogs' seren- 

 ade that strikes in one's mind the chord 

 of sadness, in another the chord of 

 contentment. To me it is the chant 

 of the savage, just as the hoot of an 

 owl or the bark of a fox brings my 

 mind back to the wilderness. 



We have been occupied with thoughts 

 of the world when out of the night 



400 



