One evening, when settling myself for the night in the six-foot cockpit of my canoe, one of these friendly little birds insisted upon sharing quarters with me. He looked the blankets over critically, perched on a finger and squeaked petulantly when I moved the digit. Then he tried several nooks but it was fully ten minutes before the question was settled and he decided to retire into his regulation reedy house. Their thin song is scarcely musical but when given at sunset seems perfectly attuned to the lonely marshes.
Salt marshes of Atlantic coast from Massachusetts to Georgia.