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. It is
eleven o'clock. I have a mile to go in the hot sun, and turn away. But
first I sweep the line once more with my glass. Yonder to the south are
two more blue herons standing in the grass. Perhaps there are more
still. I sweep the line. Yes, far, far away I can see four heads in a
row. Heads and necks rise above the grass. But so far away! Are they
birds, or only posts made alive by my imagination? I look again. I
believe I was deceived. They are nothing but stakes. See how in a row
they stand. I smile at myself. Just then one of them moves, and another
is pulled down suddenly into the grass. I smile again. "Ten great blue
herons," I say to myself.

All this has detained me, and meantime the kingfisher has taken wing and
gone noisily up the creek. The marsh hawk appears once more. A
killdeer's sharp, rasping note--a familiar sound in St. Augustine--comes