There is a mysterious god whom men call "Fate" wandering over the earth, touching with a lethal wand the individuals of this strange phantasy of Life. Often I have felt the flick of this wand but never closer than the day I tried to climb a large tree on Long Island's north shore where GREAT BLUE HERONS were nesting. The method of ascent was with the aid of two ropes looped around the trunk, pushed alternately upward while a free foot eased the strain. I could not encircle the trunk with my arms and had almost reached the first limb when my grip failed and I fell backward, hanging by both feet! Semi-conscious, I threw out spasmodic hands and grasped a small tree. Somehow I got both feet loose but a half hour must have elapsed before I could stand. — Scared blue!

Notwithstanding that near-tragic introduction I have always liked these stately birds and count it not a little to my credit that even in the shotgun-fever age I killed only one.

Every year they wander into our valley after the breeding season and reduce the frog population to correct proportions.

During courtship the fencing bouts between males are apparently savage affairs but in reality only regulation small-boy scraps — every thrust being parried with accurate skill. They are dignified even in fighting.

On rare occasions one fishes the little pool within two hundred feet of the house and by some Indian-sleuthing I can get within fifty feet unobserved. . . . There he stands motionless but the next instant a frog wiggles in the bill, caught by a stroke so swift as to elude the eye.