"Pooh!" said Mr. Thompson, after examining a dark lantern I had
purchased for the skating season--"pooh! there is nothing new about a
dark lantern; they are very common. Why, down on Long Island, where I
spent last summer, even the birds carry them."
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."
Just at this moment the cold was too much for Mr. Thompson, and he gave
way to a prolonged "Achew!"
"Hark!" screamed both voices. Then one remarked:
"He's a nice man," and he spoke then almost like one of the noble family
of Ardea. "Say!" he continued, addressing Mr. Thompson, "what did you
come out here for?"
Mr. Thompson was not surprised at having them speak to him, and he
answered, politely,
"I came into the country to escape the heat of the city."
"Just what we came from Florida for."
Mr. Thompson looked carefully at the two speakers, and could see dimly
outlined against the water the dark forms of two birds. They had long
legs and necks, and long sharp bills. Mr. Thompson immediately concluded
from their appearance, and the reference to the family of Ardea, that
they were a species of heron.
The birds noticed Mr. Thompson's look, and one of them said, kindly,
"I suppose that you want to have a good look at us, so I'll just light
my lantern, and introduce myself," saying which he threw aside the long
feathers on his breast, and disclosed a ball of light, very much like
that which is seen on the common fire-fly. This light he obligingly
turned full upon his companion, while the other performed the same
office for him. In the flood of pale phosphorescent light Mr. Thompson
was able to see them perfectly.
The first speaker was about three feet high, with a black head and back,
and tail and wings of ashy blue; his legs and bill were long like a
crane's, and his throat and breast were cream white; on the top of his
head were three long white feathers. His companion was the same, with
the exception of the feathers on the head. After Mr. Thompson had looked
at them for a few minutes, the one with the plumes on his head said:
"Now, I suppose that you would like to know our names. In Florida and
the Southern States we are called Qua birds; in Virginia they call us
Lamp-lighters; when we come up here to Long Island, we are Quaks; and if
we go further north, into Connecticut, they add an s, and call us
Squaks. But we don't like those appellations: our proper name is Ardea
Nycticorax. I am Mr. Nycticorax, and this is my wife, Mrs. N."
Mr. Thompson bowed gallantly, and introduced himself as Mr. John
Thompson, of New York. Then he continued: "I don't like to be
inquisitive, but your having a lantern makes me peculiarly interested in
you; would you mind telling me something about yourself?"
"Certainly not," answered the bird: "I should be most happy to do so. I
was born in Florida. We live there in great villages of five or six
thousand families, and we generally take a trip every summer for our
health. We stop along by the way, and some prefer to spend the summer in
one place and some in another, so you see that by the time we get here
we are pretty well scattered. When we get here we go to housekeeping.
But," he added, deftly snapping up a fish in his long bill, and tossing
it to Mr. Thompson, "just eat that, and I'll show you the rest."
Mr. Thompson swallowed the fish without thinking. In a moment he began
to experience the most peculiar sensations. His neck began to stretch,
his nose to elongate, his hands and arms became covered with feathers.
Almost before he knew it he was a full-grown Quak.
"Now," remarked Mr. Nycticorax, "you look something like other people.
If you will just follow me, I will introduce you to some of my friends
who are keeping house over here in the woods. Come."
"Come," urged Mrs. Nycticorax, and the two flapped their wings and flew
rapidly over toward the woods. Mr. Thompson followed, and soon they
alighted on the top branch of a tall tree. Just beneath them was a large
nest built of twigs; on it was seated a motley-looking Quak, who
welcomed Mr. Thompson cordially.
She raised herself a little, and proudly showed four light green eggs.
In another tree was a small family about three weeks old. They could not
fly yet, but had climbed out of the nest with the aid of their strong
bills and claws, and were perched comfortably on a high limb waiting for
their parents to return from a fishing excursion.
After Mr. Thompson had talked for some little time, he suddenly
remembered that his friends at the farm-house would be worried at his
prolonged absence. As he was about to excuse himself, his friend said,
"I will go back with you as far as where we first met."
Soon they were again on the shore of the creek, and Mr. Nycticorax was
saying good-night, when Mr. Thompson detained him.
"One more question," said that unwearied searcher after knowledge. "What
is your lantern composed of?"
"Some kind of phosphorus or other," replied the bird, and at the same
time threw back his breast feathers.
Mr. Thompson stretched out his hand to feel of it.
"Ouch! you tickle!" screamed the bird, and flew away. At the same moment
Mr. Thompson felt some one grasp his shoulder, and a familiar voice
remarked,
"Wa'al, now, I reckon you've ketched a powerful cold, sleepin' here." It
was 'Lisha, one of the farm hands.
Mr. Thompson insists that he did not go to sleep; but his
fellow-boarders are rather inclined to believe 'Lisha's statement, to
the effect that "Mr. Thompson was a-sneezin' and a-snorin', and
a-snorin' and a-sneezin'; and ef I hadn't waked him up, he'd 'a ketched
his death."
Certain it is that Mr. Thompson has suffered with a tremendous cold in
the head ever since.
[Illustration: "WINTER."--FROM A PAINTING BY LAURA ALMA TADEMA.]
"THINK AND THANK."