seemed to stand, on the highest and farthest ridge looking seaward. But
particulars mattered little. The blue water, the pale, changeable
grayish-green of the low island woods, the deeper green of the pines,
the unnamable hues of the sky, the sunshine that flooded it all, these
were beauty enough;--beauty all the more keenly enjoyed because for much
of the way it was seen only by glimpses, through vistas of palmetto and
live-oak. Sometimes the road came quite out of the woods, as it rounded
a turn of the hammock. Then I stopped to gaze long at the scene.
Elsewhere I pushed through the hedge at favorable points, and sat, or
stood, looking up and down the river. A favorite seat was the prow of an
old row-boat, which lay, falling to pieces, high and dry upon the sand.
It had made its last cruise, but I found it still useful.

The river is shallow. At low tide sandbars and oyster-beds occupy much
of its breadth; and even when it looked full, a great blue heron would
very likely be wading in the middle of it. That was a sight to which I
had grown accustomed in Florida, where this bird, familiarly known as
"the major," is apparently ubiquitous. Too big to be easily hidden, it
is also, as a general thing, too wary to be approached within gunshot. I
am not sure that I ever came within sight of one, no matter how suddenly
or how far away, that it did not give evidence of having seen me first.
Long legs, long wings, a long bill--and long sight and long patience:
such is the tall bird's dowry. Good and useful qualities, all of them.
Long may they avail to put off the day of their owner's extermination.

The major is scarcely a bird of which you can make a pet in your mind,
as you may of the chickadee, for instance, or the bluebird, or the
hermit thrush. He does not lend himself naturally to such imaginary
endearments. But it is pleasant to have him on one's daily beat. I
should count it one compensation for having to live in Florida instead