bit of robbing traps, had no such scruples, and, bringing
up his rifle with the careless quickness of an old woodsman, fired
before I could interpose a word. The fisher dropped, and after
writhing and snapping a few moments, stretched out--dead.

Leaving Ben to take off its skin,--for the fur is worth a trifle,--I
was strolling along the shore, when upon coming under a drooping
cedar, some six or seven rods from the scene of the fight, another
large heron sprang out of a clump of brambles, and stalked off with a
croak of distrust. It at once occurred to me that there might be a
nest here; and opening the brambles, lo, there it was, a broad,
clumsy structure of coarse sticks, some two or three feet from the
ground, and lined with moss and water grasses. In it, or, rather, on
it, were two chicks, heron chicks, uncouth little things, with long,
skinny legs and necks, and sparsely clad with tufts of gray down. And
happening to glance under the nest, I perceived an egg, lodged down
among the bramble-stalks. It had probably rolled out of the nest. It
struck me, however, as being a very small egg from so large a bird;
and having a rule in my pocket, I found it to be but two and a half
inches in length by one and a half in width. It was of a dull,
bluish-white color, without spots, though rather rough and uneven. I
took it home as a curiosity.

On the edge of the nest I saw several small perch, a frog, and a
meadow-mouse, all recently brought, though the place had a suspicious
odor of carrion.

All this while the old heron had stood at a little distance away,
uttering now and then an ominous croak. I could easily have shot it
from where I stood, but thought the family had suffered enough for one
day.

The presence of the nest accounted for the obstinacy with which the
old male heron had contested the ground with the fisher.

Both old birds are said to sit by turns upon the eggs. But the nests
are not always placed so near the ground as this one. Last summer,
while fishing from the "Pappoose's Pond," I discovered one in the very
top of a lofty Norway pine--a huge bunch of sticks and long grass,
upon the edge of which one of the old herons was standing on one foot,
perfectly motionless, with its neck drawn down, and seemingly asleep.

The artist who could have properly sketched that nest and bird would
have made his fortune then and there.

C. A. STEPHENS.

LITTLE HOME-