es in the
shade of a bank or among the tall grasses, where they were almost
invisible by reason of their soft colors, and wait for hours for fish
and frogs to come to them. By night each one picked out a spot on the
clean open shore, off a point, generally, where he could see up and
down, where there was no grass to hide an enemy, and where the bushes on
the bank were far enough away so that he could hear the slight rustle of
leaves before the creature that made it was within springing distance.
And there he would sleep safe through the long night, unless disturbed
by my canoe or by some other prowler. Herons see almost as well by night
as by day, and their ears are keen as a weasel's; so I could never get
near enough to surprise them, however silently I paddled. I would hear
only a startled rush of wings, and then a questioning call as they
sailed over me before winging away to quieter beaches.

If I were jacking, with a light blazing brightly before me in my canoe,
to see what night folk I might surprise on the shore, Quoskh was the
only one for whom my jack had no fascination. Deer and moose, foxes and
wild ducks, frogs and fish,--all seemed equally charmed by the great
wonder of a light shining silently out of the vast darkness. I saw them
all, at different times, and glided almost up to them before timidity
drove them away from the strange bright marvel. But Quoskh was not to be
watched in that way, nor to be caught by any such trick. I would see a
vague form on the far edge of the light's pathway; catch the bright
flash of either eye as he swung his weather-vane head; then the vague
form would slide into the upper darkness. A moment's waiting; then,
above me and behind, where the light did not dazzle his eyes, I would
hear his night cry--with more of anger than of questioning in it--and as
I turned the jack upward I would catch a single glimpse of his broad
wings sailing over the lake. Nor would he ever come back, like the fox
on the bank, for a second look to be quite sure what I was.

When the bright, moonlit nights came, there was uneasiness in Quoskh's
wild breast. The solitary life that he loves best claimed him by day;
but at night the old gregarious instinct drew him again to his fellows.
Once, when drifting over the beaver pond through the delicate witchery
of the moonlight, I heard five or six of the great birds croaking
excitedly at the heronry, which they had deserted weeks before. The
lake, and especi