intervals so regular, that we all suspended smoking, certain that
there were other sportsmen beside ourselves in the neighborhood of
this lake.

"Who in the world is that?" asked Smith, of Martin, who seemed to
enjoy our astonishment.

"That," replied Martin, "is a gentleman known in these parts as the
'Pile-driver.' He visits all these lakes in the summer season, and
though, as a general thing, he travels alone, yet he sometimes has
half a dozen friends with him. If you'll listen a moment, may be
you'll find that he has a friend in the neighborhood now who will
drive a pile in another place."

Sure enough, in a moment the same ringing blows came from a reedy spot
in a different part of the bay.

"The bird that makes that noise," said Martin, "is about the homeliest
creature in these woods. It is a small grey heron, that lights down
among the grass and weeds to hunt for small frogs and such little fish
as swim along the shore. When he drives his pile, he stands with his
neck and long bill pointed straight up, and pumping the air into his
throat, sends it oat with the strange sound you have heard. It is the
resemblance of the sound to that made by driving a stake into ground
covered with water, that gives him his name. He's an awkward, filthy
bird, but he helps to make up the noises one hears in these
wild regions."

"My first thought was," said Smith, "that we had got among the spirits
of the woods, and that they were 'rapping' their indignation at our