Jonathan.
Another little one, with silent, low flight, then more. "Sandpipers," he
commented; "we don't want them." The patient horse plodded along, now in
damp marsh soil, now in dry, deep sand, to the hitching-place by an old
barn on the cliff.

As we pulled up, Jonathan took a little bottle out of his pocket and
handed it to me. "Better put it on now," he said.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Tar and sweet oil--for the mosquitoes."

I smelled of it with suspicion. It was a dark, gummy liquid. "I think I
prefer the mosquitoes."

"You do!" said Jonathan. "You'll think again pretty soon. Here, let me
have it." He had tied the horse and blanketed him, and now proceeded to
smear himself with the stuff--face, neck, hands. "You needn't look at me
that way!" he remarked genially; "you'll be doing it yourself soon. Just
wait."

We took our guns and cartridges, and plunged down from the cliff to the
marsh. As we did so there rose about me a brown cloud, which in a moment
I realized was composed of mosquitoes--a crazy, savage, bloodthirsty
mob. They beset me on all sides,--they were in my hair, my eyes, nose,
ears, mouth, neck. I brushed frantically at them, but a drowning man
might as well try to brush back the water as it closes in.

"Where's the bottle?" I gasped.

"What bottle?" said Jonathan, innocently. Jonathan is human.

"The tar and sweet oil. Quick!"

"Oh! I thought you preferred the mosquitoes." Yes, Jonathan _is_ human.

"Never mind what you _thought_!" and I snatched greedily at the blessed
little bottle.

I poured the horrid stuff on my face, my neck, my hands, I
out-Jonathaned Jonathan; then I took a deep breath of relief as the
mosquito mob withdrew to a respectful distance. Jonathan reached for
the bottle.

"Oh, I can just as well carry it," I said, and tucked it into one of my
hunting-coat pockets.

Jonathan chuckled gently, but I did not care. Nothing should part me
from that little bottle of ill-smelling stuff.

We started on again, out across the marsh. Enough light had come to show
us the gray-green level, full of mists and little glimmers of water, and
dotted with low haycocks, their dull, tawny yellow showing softly in the
faint dawn light.

"Hark!" said Jonathan.

We paused. Through the fog came a faint, whistling call, in descending
half-tones, indescribable, coming out of nowhere, sounding now close
beside us, now very far away.

"Yellowlegs," said Jonathan. "We aren't a bit too soo