Another buzzard, another marsh hawk, another yellow butterfly, and then
a smaller one, darker, almost orange. It passes too quickly over the
creek and away. The marsh hawk comes nearer, and I see the strong yellow
tinge of his plumage, especially underneath. He will grow handsomer as
he grows older. A pity the same could not be true of men. Behind me are
sharp cries of titlarks. From the direction of the river come frequent
reports of guns. Somebody is doing his best to be happy! All at once I
prick up my ears. From the grass just across the creek rises the brief,
hurried song of a long-billed marsh wren. So _he_ is in Florida, is he?
Already I have heard confused noises which I feel sure are the work of
rails of some kind. No doubt there is abundant life concealed in those
acres on acres of close grass.
The heron and the kingfisher are still quiet. Their morning hunt was
successful, and for to-day Fate cannot harm them. A buzzard, with
nervous, rustling beats, goes directly above the low cedar under which I
am resting.
At last, after a siesta of two hours, the heron has changed his place. I
looked up just in season to see him sweeping over the grass, into which
he dropped the next instant. The tide is falling. The distant sand-hills
are winking in the heat, but the breeze is deliciously cool, the very
perfection of temperature, if a man is to sit still in the shade.
Pages:
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41