THE MARSH 401 



comes the soft croon of a little screech orderly as possible. The night hawks 



owl and we are brought back to nature swoop down and boom as they pass 



at once. Our cities are new — this cry overhead. One feels thankful that the 



is almost as ancient as the hills. It mosquitoes are of some good in being 



belongs with the soil beneath our towns, food supply to so graceful a bird. The 



It is the spirit of the past crying to us. outlet passage into the river is hard. 



Old books carry us back to our racial to find, but at last we pole and paddle 



periods, but this cry takes us back of into it. 



all books. So the dirge of the frog As we are paddling along the chan- 



is the c.y of the spirit of river and nel, the voice of the bittern booms 



marsh land. That old bull's croak, over the marsh. It seems to come from 



how old he must be, probably great- above, below — on all sides, a wonder- 



grandsire of the lesser fry. He must be ful reverberating sound. We are glad 



ancient. At least he is the chief expon- that we waited. No wonder the farm- 



ent of the ancient order of things. ers call him "stake-driver" and "plum- 



Our robins and blue birds are of the pudding." For once these are rather 

 orchard and the home of man, but who descriptive, though inadequate corn- 

 can claim neighborship to the bittern mon names. 



or bull frog? There is nothing civil- A water snake glides across the 



ized or refined in the hoarse croak of channel, leaving a silver wake in the 



the great blue heron. They are all moonlight. The frogs "plunk" into 



barbarians and their songs are of the the water as we push past. A night 



untamed wilderness. heron rises from the margin of the river 



The moon comes up over the hills, and slowly flops away. The bittern 



The mosquitoes have become savage, booms again as we row down the peace- 



The marsh has tolerated us as long as it ful river and we leave the marsh land 



cares to, We begin our retreat as to its ancient and rightful owners. 



COMRADE OF OLD 



BY -STACY E. BAKER 



Comrade of old, come back to me, 



The careless youth you used to be ; 

 Come back, and banish for awhile 

 Your frowns, and let those stern lips smile; 



We'll jaunt the aisles of memory. 



Come back, the meadow winds blow free, 

 And, with the brook that threads the lea, 

 They call you from your long exile, 

 Comrade of old. 



Here, by the pond, the willow tree 



Becks, with its arms, alluringly ; 



Come back, a truce to court, and trial — 

 Doff, for a week, the frock and tile, 



And come, the boy we long to see, 

 Comrade of old. 



