Bfctaurus 
lent if : inosus 
The Home of the Bittern. 
BY F. H. C. 
Standing on the edge ot some inpenetrable 
bog, into which he hies himself if too closely 
approached, the Bittern, Botaurus lentiginosus , 
resents the usual investigation afforded by other 
less, interesting species. When disturbed from 
his uncouth attitude, his subsequent actions are 
soon lost to view, and if he falls a victim, the 
poor lifeless body relates none of the history of 
its past existence. Renowned devotees of the 
science of Bird-life have sought the sequel to 
their northward migration, but in few instances 
have they been rewarded for their labor. The 
surrounding circumstances have in many cases 
proven too much for human endurance or mala¬ 
rial constitution. 
During one of my sojourns amongst the wilds 
of Maine, fortune granted me a glimpse at the 
home of a pair of these birds. At the northern 
end of Lake Umbagog, is a swamp of consider¬ 
able extent, caused by the dam at Errol. At 
this place in the latter part of May, 188ii, I 
spent a week in company with Joe Sampson, 
the famous Dead River guide; who in answer 
to a question I put to him, informed me that 
“Meadow Hens'’ were “tolerble thick in crane 
swamp.” Often had I seen the Bittern fly 
across the corner of the lake and disappear 
in the direction of the above named swamp, 
and from its recesses I have heard its curious 
Spring note, which may be said to resemble, to 
a certain degree, the sound produced by strik¬ 
ing an axe upon a stake; but any ornithologist 
who would be misled into following the direc¬ 
tion of the sound, thinking it was produced by 
the latter cause, had better not stray far from 
home; in my opinion he would get lost on Bos¬ 
ton Common. 
On June 2nd my hesitating mind had arrived 
at one conclusion : I would explore the swamp; 
but it must be confessed I had no assurance of 
success. The next day we began operations, 
and at noon the bow of the canoe was turned 
towards Moll’s Rock. Soon we entered the 
overflowed tract, and paddled under the de¬ 
caying trees, killed by the overflowing of the 
water. At evening we had reached a camp¬ 
ing spot; a small island which afforded a dry 
bed and black flies. This was the limit of our 
travel by our canoe; and the next day’s rising 
sun found us wading waist deep in the cold 
water, towards the marsh. The country in 
which we were now was indeed a desolate 
wilderness, sufficient to inspire a sense of 
homesickness in the explorer. The dead hem¬ 
locks shorn of their limbs, raised their immense 
trunks high in the air, as monuments to the 
destruction of the forests. Underneath were 
their stricken fellows lying as watersoaked ob¬ 
stacles to our march; and ever and anon some 
unseen hole would immerse us still deeper in 
the chilly fluid. Three hour's patient applica¬ 
tion brought us to the “bog.” This was in¬ 
deed more desolate than the swamp behind us. 
A few dead trees alone broke the monotony of 
treacherous quagmire and shaky bog. A few 
alders fringed the edge, and a large expanse of 
water in the centre was a relief to the eye. My 
companion stood by my side in silent contem- 
