As I was about to exclaim, he interrupted me with:
"Not all the birds, of course; but there is a kind of heron, a Qua bird—a mighty intelligent fellow he is, too. He carries a lantern when he goes fishing at night—'fire-lighting,' you know. A nice bird, and a bright talker."
"Did you talk with him?" I ventured to ask.
"Of course I did. Long talk. Funny time. I'll tell you about it," replied Mr. Thompson, good-naturedly.
I will not try to repeat the story in Mr. Thompson's own language, for his sentences are somewhat disconnected, but the gist of it is as follows:
Mr. Thompson lay on the shore of a little creek down on the east end of Long Island. He had fled from the farm-house where he was boarding, partly on account of the heat, but principally to escape the sewing circle which met at the house that evening. He had been lying on the bank for some time, and was just beginning to feel cold, when he saw two queer-looking lights bobbing along the shore, and moving toward him.
"Somebody trying to steal Farmer Brown's oysters," he murmured, and prepared to give the intruders a good scare. But the lights came so slowly that his mind wandered off, and he was only aroused from his musings when he heard a peculiar voice near the shore remark:
"It's a man, but he's asleep, and he hasn't any gun."
"Hack!" replied the other, in a guttural tone; "he couldn't hit us if he had a gun."
"No," said the first. "He's a pretty good sort. I've seen him before, and he don't go shooting much."