THE DEAD TREE'S DAY . 
109 
a while I grew weary of watching the heron, and 
of wondering at his macaroni-like legs and his 
strangely concentrated stare, which now and 
then fixed itself on my hiding-place, so I whis¬ 
tled softly. The heron paused in his feather- 
combing and looked towards me. There was no 
fear in his glance, only mild interest. I sang, 
first sad music, then “Nancy Lee,” “Pinafore,” 
“Hold the Fort,” everything I could think of, 
in fact, which might prompt him to action; but 
he only stared, now over his beak, then under 
it. The latter method of ogling was very effec¬ 
tive, for the long bill w T as contemplating the 
skies, while the cold, calculating eyes stood out 
each side of its base and glared down across it 
until I seemed to feel their clamminess. From 
music I turned to animal language, and barked, 
mewed, mooed, brayed, whinnied, quacked, 
crowed, cackled, peeped, hooted, and cawed, 
until my throat was raw. He was clearly en¬ 
tertained, and showed no desire to leave me. 
At last I came down to plain English, suppos¬ 
ing that my voice undisguised by song would 
certainly alarm him, but to my great surprise 
he apparently did not associate the human voice 
with its owner in the slightest degree. In fact, 
he now seemed bored by my noise, and went on 
with his preening. Suddenly, in moving my 
foot, I snapped a small twig. Before there 
