do the
redwing forced him. I began to tremble for the plucky bird, when I saw him
turn, half fold his shining wings, and shoot straight down--a meteor of
jet with fire flying from its opposite sides--down, down, while I held my
breath. Suddenly the wings flashed, and he was scaling a steep incline;
another flash, a turn, and he was upon a slower plane--had thrown himself
against the air and settled upon the swaying top of a brown cattail.

A quiet had been creeping over the swamp and meadow. The dry rasp of a
dragon-fly's wings was loud in the grass. The stream beneath the beeches
darkened and grew moody as the light neared its noon intensity; the
beech-leaves hung limp and silent; a catbird settled near me with dropped
tail and head drawn in between her shoulders, as mute as the leaves; the
Maryland yellowthroat broke into a sharp gallop of song at intervals,--he
would have to clatter a little on doomsday, if that day fell in June,--but
the intervals were far apart. The meadow shimmered. No part of the horizon
was in sight--only the sky overhanging the little open of grass, and this
was cloudless, though far from blue.

Perhaps there was not a real sign of uneasiness anywhere except in my
boat; yet I felt something ominous in this silent, stifled noon. After
all, I ought to have scotched the rusty, red-bellied water-snake leering
at me now. The croak of the great blue heron sounded again; then far away,
mysterious and spirit-like, floated a soft _qua, qua, qua_--the cry of the
least bittern out of the heart of the swamp.

I loosed the grape-vine, put in my paddle, and turned down-stream, with an
urgent desire to get out of the swamp, out where I could see about me. I
made no haste, lest the stream, the swamp, the something that made me
uneasy, should know. Not that I am superstitious, though I should have
been had I lived when the land was all swamp and wood and prairie; and I
should be now were I a sailor. My boat slipped swiftly along under the
thick-shadowing trees, and rounding a sharp bend, brought me to the open
pond, to the sky, and to a sight that explained my disquietude. The west,
half-way to the zenith, was green--the black-and-blue green of bruised
flesh. Out of it shot a fork of lightning, and behind it rumbled muffled
thunder.

There was no time to descend the pond. I could already hear the wind
across the silence and suspense. It was one of the supreme moments of the
summer. The very trees seemed brea