Right in the heart of the marsh-land lay Black Lake. Spread out like a sheet of molten lead it lay, its lonely waters walled about by thick jungles of sedge and cat-tails; a desolate spot, seldom visited by man, but known and haunted by all the kindred of the wild. You might trace their well-worn trails through the swamp on all sides. Here came Moween, the black bear, and her one cub, for the other she had lost. The sharp teeth of Nemox had done their work. On the edge of the lake Unk-Wunk, the porcupine, loved to loaf, digging out lily roots, and towards night, when shadows crept over the water, Nemox, the fisher, would sneak down, hoping to trap some little wild thing.
One day about twilight, when the little herons were half-grown, a large colony of herons came to the lake. It was approaching time for their annual colonizing plans, and they always meet and talk it over. Down they flocked in droves, on wide azure wings, calling to each other their lonely salute, "Quoskh, quoskh." And after standing on the pebbly shore solemnly upon one foot for a while, at a signal they all began to dance a most fantastic sort of a dance, which is called "the heron dance." Many were the curious eyes watching the strange dance of the herons. Among them was Nemox, the fisher, who almost forgot to hide himself, so taken up in watching the herons was he. However, as he watched them a sudden fascinating odour came to his nostrils and he forgot everything else—it was catnip.
Soon he reached the bed of catnip, all silvery green leaves, sparkling with dew. He nibbled and ate, until finally, overcome completely by the fascinating odour, he simply lay down and rolled about, purring like a cat for sheer delight. He felt dreamy and care-free. But just as he was enjoying himself supremely, down floated the wide wings of Quoskh, the great blue heron, and with two stabs of her sword-like beak she had blinded Nemox, and with her wings beaten the breath completely out of his body.
Then, triumphantly, the heron spread her great blue wings and flew off into the twilight, calling "Quoskh, quoskh, quoskh" to her mate across the silence of the marshes.
THE BOTOLPH
PRINTING WORKS,
8, GATE STREET,
KINGSWAY, W.C.2