WILD LIFE ON THE WING 
They were exploring a heap of faggots, and 
being surprised at his melancholy figure, one 
and all, great tit, blue tit, coal tit, and the 
bob-about gold-crest, their camp-follower, all 
said so, until the heron was confounded, and 
cowered in the undergrowth until the storm 
had passed. 
The sunshine left the glen, and damp mist 
hung among the trees. Then the stream in 
the hollow made such a pother that the heron 
began to listen. Water, still or brawling, 
speaks very plainly to the people who are to 
inherit the waterways, and the heron strode 
sedately towards the music. The path was 
rough and strewed with waste wood, and as 
yet he was unhandy with his legs they 
seemed a trifle too long. Also, in spite of his 
size and dignity, he was nothing but a great 
overgrown baby, very new to life, trusting 
where he should have trembled, and dreading 
bogies in innocent places. The dim pool 
suddenly lay before him, shot with ripples 
where the newts rose. Under his foot a frog 
writhed and leaped. He sidled towards it 
delicately and watched it. Frog he knew 
well, but limp, disembowelled frog, ready for 
swallowing. That frog could kick put a new 
complexion on the matter, and he struck it 
suddenly thrice, till it lay pulped on the mud. 
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