Jan., 1919 A RETURN TO THE DAKOTA LAKE REGION 11 
and again in the same places in the canes, near which they clung to stalks and 
emitted their strange notes, their Red-headed Woodpecker kar’r’r and their 
Redwing karrowe’ and kerrup. Maryland Yellowthroats were singing and the 
scale of the Sora came up from various parts of the marsh. In a mass of green 
at the end of the Bridge I caught sight of a mite of a Marsh Wren atilt of a 
stalk, singing a squeaky little song, clack, clack-ah, clack-ah, clack that changed 
to a scolding chatter as he watched us—cha-cha-cha-cha-cha, cha. But best of all 
were the loud joyous songs of the two Bobolinks, the Bobolink of the Meadows, 
and the Bobolink of the Sloughs. | . 
From the water below us came the unmistakable throaty pumping of the 
Ruddy—ip-ip-ip-ip-ip-ip—cluck’, wp-ip-ip-ip-ip-ip—cluck’. Absurd, — self-im- 
portant little chap! At the flat tub’ of a Coot, Ruddy bridled, sat up, pumped, 
and elucked again. He was so close below and apparently so fearless that I forgot 
everything but my pleasure and interest in finding him there, and, off guard, 
must have moved, for, dropping his cocky air, he hurriedly started for shore, 
diving and swimming under water, coming up only to dive again. My little 
companion, greatly impressed by the field glass she held in her hand asked 
eagerly. ‘‘You can’t see him through the water, diving, with this here, can you?’’ 
As I gazed down from the Bridge over the narrow waterways through the 
green, looking for swimmers, a handsome yellow and black snake pulled him- 
self sinuously across the Coulee. Beautiful tree-like water weeds standing in 
the stream bed and reaching up to the sunlit surface looked like golden fila- 
ments. On the opposite side of the Bridge, the knightly spears of tall Sagitta- 
rias rose above the water, while hair-like masses of weed lay on the surface 
garlanded with delicate flowers as if decorating the brows of some floating 
Elaine. Small blue dragon flies resting on the water weeds, large gauzy black- 
banded ones flying above, and exquisite orange-colored gauzy wings alighting 
on the Bridge, birds of the air flying about freely overhead, birds of the water 
swimming secretly through the mazes below, made a fascinating scene. 
Over the Bridge-framed pictures of green fields and white clouds, the 
lights and shades shifted, with developing charm of color. With the sun under 
a cloud, the wheat fields were a dull green; as the clouds broke away at the 
edges, long streaks of light illumined the prairies; and when the last clouds 
melted away the whole broad landscape was flooded with warm yellow light. 
After watching the birds for a long time in their setting, the peace and beauty 
of that setting gradually dominated all the rest. 
A strange Bridge it seemed—no link in the noisy traffic of the world, bul 
iaerely a green-carpeted span across a green-veiled waterway, idling between 
green farm lands, winding around reedy bends and losing itself in marshy 
meadow borders; the only sounds coming from it, the buzzing of insects and 
the call of birds, as the sweet air of the prairie breathed quietly over it. No 
intrusive discordant elements of world traffic could enter here—no shrieking 
boat whistles, no rattling railroad trains. Away to the horizon stretched the 
green blanket, so far that, as you gazed, you felt the convexity of the great 
prairie—windmill sails on one horizon, houses half hid in wheat on the other. 
Even the untutored child at my side was impressed by it, asking incredulously, 
““Ain’t there no end to the world?2’’ 
(To be continued) 
