he water is the life-blood of the marsh,--drain it, and reed and
rush, bird and batrachian, perish or disappear. The marsh, to him who
enters it in a receptive mood, holds, besides mosquitoes and
stagnation,--melody, the mystery of unknown waters, and the sweetness of
Nature undisturbed by man.

The ideal marsh is as far as one can go from civilisation. The depths of a
wood holds its undiscovered secrets; the mysterious call of the veery
lends a wildness that even to-day has not ceased to pervade the old wood.
There are spots overgrown with fern and carpeted with velvety wet moss;
here also the skunk cabbage and cowslip grow rank among the alders. Surely
man cannot live near this place--but the tinkle of a cowbell comes faintly
on the gentle stirring breeze--and our illusion is dispelled, the charm is
broken.

But even to-day, when we push the punt through the reeds from the clear
river into the narrow, tortuous channel of the marsh, we have left
civilisation behind us. The great ranks of the cat-tails shut out all view
of the outside world; the distant sounds of civilisation serve only to
accentuate the isolation. It is the land of the Indian, as it was before
the strange white man, brought from afar in great white-sailed ships, came
to usurp the land of the wondering natives. At any moment we fancy that we
may see an Indian canoe silently round a bend in the channel.

The marsh has remained unchanged since the days when the Mohican Indians
speared fish there. We are living in a bygone time. A little green heron
flies across the water. How wild he is; nothing has tamed him. He also is
the same now as always. He does not nest in orchard or meadow, but holds
himself aloof, making no concessions to man and the ever increasing spread
of his civilisation. He does not come to his doors for food. He can find
food for himself and in abundance; he asks only to be let alone. Nor does
he intrude himself. Occasionally we meet him along our little meadow
stream, but he makes no advances. As we come suddenly upon him, how
indignant he seems at being disturbed in his hunting. Like the Indian, he
is jealous of his ancient domain and resents intrusion. He retires,
however, throwing back to us a cry of disdain. Here in the marsh is the
last stand of primitive nature in the settled country; here is the last
stronghold of the untamed. The bulrushes rise in ranks, like the spears of
a great army, surrounding and guarding the colony of the