s, basking in
the sun. The little rail again runs among the reeds, searching for food in
the form of small snails. The blackbirds and wrens, most domestic in
character, go busily about their home business; the turtles again come up
to their positions, and a muskrat swims across the channel. One hopes that
the little colony of marsh wren homes on stilts above the water, like the
ancient lake dwellers of Tenochtitlan, may have no enemies. But the habit
of building dummy nests is suggestive that the wee birds are pitting their
wits against the cunning of some enemy,--and suspicion rests upon the
serpent.

As evening approaches and the shadows from the bordering wood point long
fingers across the marsh, the blackbirds straggle back from their
feeding-grounds and settle, clattering, among the reeds. Their clamour
dies gradually away and night settles down upon the marsh.

* * * * *

All sounds have ceased save the booming of the frogs, which but emphasises
the loneliness of it all. A distant whistle of a locomotive dispels the
idea that all the world is wilderness. The firefly lamps glow along the
margin of the rushes. The frogs are now in full chorus, the great bulls
beating their tom-toms and the small fry filling in the chinks with
shriller cries. How remote the scene and how melancholy the chorus!

To one mind there is a quality in the frogs' serenade that strikes the
chord of sadness, to another the chord of contentment, to still another it
is the chant of the savage, just as the hoot of an owl or the bark of a
fox brings vividly to mind the wilderness.

Out of the night comes softly the croon of a little screech owl--that cry
almost as ancient as the hills. It belongs with the soil beneath our
towns. It is the spirit of the past crying to us. So the dirge of the frog
is the cry of the spirit of river and marshland.

Our robins and bluebirds are of the orchard and the home of man, but who
can claim neighbourship to the bittern or the bullfrog? There is nothing
of civilisation in the hoarse croak of the great blue heron. These are all
barbarians and their songs are of the untamed wilderness.

The moon rises over the hills. The mosquitoes have become savage. The
marsh has tolerated us as long as it cares to, and we beat our retreat.
The night hawks swoop down and boom as they pass overhead. One feels
thankful that the mosquitoes are of some good in furnishing food to so
gr