A MARSH MYSTERY 
Shall I call thee bird, 
Or but a wandering voice ? 
Wordsworth. 
O be lost in the maze of a wild-rice 
JL marsh, although an unpleasant ex- 
perience, is not without its compensation. 
Usually the latter is more apparent after- 
wards than during the anxiety of the mo- 
ment, but this was not the case on the day 
I heard and saw my first sora rail. It was a 
warm day in early June when, punting our 
boat through a narrow channel, we made a 
wrong turn and immediately lost our bearings. 
In and out among the rushes we pushed our 
way only to become more and more be- 
wildered. Not one familiar spot could we 
see ; not a single bulrush that we had ever 
passed before. Tired out at length, we 
concluded to lie still and, Micawber-like, 
wait for something to turn up. A hush 
