But still the craving for food allowed her no rest. She had to be constantly extending her domain and finding new territory.
See the marsh now that July has come!--July, luxuriant, mature, with clouds for hips and swelling breasts, and a sun that seems weary of journeying. Like sea-birds that have no air under their wings for their flight, come puffs of wind, throwing themselves into peat-bogs and marsh-pools. The air is one continuous drowsy hum of flies and gnats; and the reed-warbler is in full voice.
Grim lies dozing in the tepid water, and sees the world above her indistinctly and uncertainly as through thick grass. She only notices that out of the shining blue up there, there now and then appears a little dark shadow. It comes down suddenly, pauses for an instant as it touches the water, and is gone again.
It is something alive, she guesses--something for her!
Wherefore she disguises her torpedo-body, and awaits her opportunity.
A moment later the vegetation trembles, the thick masses of sphagnum moss bulge out like clouds, a storm rises on the bottom. The heap of moss lifts, the surface of the water rocks and is suddenly broken by a splash as Grim darts up at the very moment that a swallow, with a graceful swing, skims a gnat off the water.
The surface grows calm, the bubbles float off and burst before reaching the bank, while Grim sinks back into her bed with the bird on its way through her gullet.
The water-beetles and gnats were jumbled together in one muddy mass.
Thus the struggle for food was daily sharpening her wits.
Formerly she had resorted to the islands of water-lilies to catch fish; now there were no fish, but experience had taught her that here the birds came to drink. With her nose just under the margin of the leaf, she stood ready; and she captured many a water-wagtail, now the white with the moon-silvered feathers, now the yellow--yellow as newly-opened marsh-marigolds.