150 
THE GREAT BLUE HERON 
trailing rigidly behind* It seems a strange hope that 
impels him where the persistent grip of the frost 
is stronger and stronger, for the slowly awakening 
landscape over which he is passing is not yet prepared 
to serve his many needs. The eye follows him as his 
great, distended wings grow smaller, and he seems in 
the deceiving perspective to gradually descend toward 
the northern horizon. On and on he goes, responding 
to the impelling urge until he becomes an uncertain 
spot on the darkening grey into which he slowly 
vanishes. 
The varied panorama of his life passes in fancy as 
he disappears in the northern distance. The months of 
indolent ease he spent among the rich verdure of the 
southern swamps, protected from intrusion by their 
impenetrable growths and the poisons of their vapour 
and their ephemeral life. There in the richness of 
solitude, wading slowly through the stagnant water, 
his long white neck made a clear outline against the 
dark green of the perpetual shades either in the grace- 
ful curve of repose or the tall, strained rigidity of 
alarm. The narrow, pendent feathers of his breast, 
reaching the surface of the water as he wades, are 
supposed to attract the fish and amphibians on which 
he feeds. But whether these victims are attracted or 
fascinated, there is death in the swift stroke of that 
great, powerful yellow beak. There is no more 
graceful bird than the Blue Heron, and nature seems 
