"Soon there will be four ugly, helpless birdlings, who will sit up and cry for food. It will be at least three weeks after they are hatched before they will try to wade out into these flat sea-marshes. I shall have to let no fish escape me, if I do not wish the fledglings to starve."
"You do not think your babies pretty?" asked Phyllis.
"No," said the heron, truthfully, "they are not even so good-looking as other birds' babies. But that I do not mind, for will they not some day be as beautiful as I myself?"
"Yes," said Phyllis, "I have seen your picture many a time. In mother's room is a large screen and on it is your likeness embroidered in silks. The long green grasses are growing about you in the picture. One foot is drawn up and your head is drawn down between your shoulders just as it now is."
"That is the way to rest," said the heron.
"What were you doing here?" Phyllis asked, wading a little closer to the long-legged bird.
"I was fishing," said the great blue heron. "It is the one thing I delight in. From morning till night—"
"My brother Jack—" began Phyllis, but the bird paid no attention.
"I sometimes stand here perfectly still for hours. I wait patiently for the fish or the frogs to appear.
"Then I strike suddenly with my strong, sharp bill. I snap up the fish or frog and give it a knock or two to kill it.