2 AT THE NORTH OF BEARCAMP WATER. 
and tempt the gunner into the chilly gloom in 
search of a shot at their phantom forms. In 
spring a host of migrating warblers makes 
merry in its tree-tops, and the song of the win¬ 
ter wren is sent from heaven to give joy to its 
shadows. Summer brings to it many a shy 
orchid blooming among the ferns, and the fish¬ 
erman finds the trout in its brook’s placid pools 
long after they have ceased to bite well in the 
upper reaches of the stream. There are no 
venomous serpents hanging from its moss-grown 
trees, no tigers concealed in its brakes, and no 
ague lingering in its stagnant pools. It is a 
safe swamp and kind, yet none the less a swamp. 
When I reached its borders, after crossing 
the meadow, I found wild roses in bloom. It 
was of these, doubtless, that the veery was sing¬ 
ing so bewitchingly. Certainly nothing less 
fair could have prompted such magic music. 
Moreover, the veery’s nest, framed in nodding 
osmundas, is near these beautiful blossoms, 
with many a pool and thicket between it and 
hard ground. Passing into the darkness of the 
swamp, I glanced back at the sky. The north 
and west were filled with black clouds which 
were stirred by passionate winds in their midst. 
A low growl of thunder came through the heavy 
air. I felt as though forbidden to enter the 
mysteries of the swamp, as though warned that 
