THE BITTERN
1.THE bittern is，in many respects，an interesting bird，but it is a bird of the wilds，almost a bird of desolation，avoiding alike the neighborhood and the progress of man‘s improvements.It belongs to rude nature，where the land knows no character save that which the untrained working of the elements impresses upon it；so that，when any locality is in the course of being won to usefulness，the bittern is the first to depart，and when any one is abandoned，it is the last to return.“The bittern shall dwell there，”is the final curse，and implies that the place is to become uninhabited and uninhabitable.It hears not the whistle of the plowman or the sound of the mattock；and the tinkle of the sheep-bell or the lowing of an ox （although the latter bears so much resemblance to its own hollow and dismal voice，that it has given foundation to the name，）is a signal for it to be gone.
2.Extensive and dingy pools，if moderately upland so much the better，which lie in the hollows，catching，like so many traps，the lighter and more fertile mold which the rains wash，and the winds blow from the naked hights around，converting it into harsh and dingy vegetation，and the pasture of those loathsome things which mingle in the ooze，or crawl and swim in the putrid and mantling waters，are the habitations of the bittern.
3.The bittern appears as if it hated the beams of that sun which calls forth the richness and beauty of nature，which it so studiously avoids；for，though with any thing but music，it hails the fall of night with as much energy，and，no doubt，to its own feeling，with as muchglee and joy，as the birds of brighter places hail the rising of the morn.Altogether it is a singular bird；and yet there is a sublimity about it of a more heart-stirring character，than that which is to be found where the air is balmy and the vegetation rich，and nature keeps holiday in holiday attire.It is a bird of the confines，beyond which we can imagine nothing but utter ruin；and all subjects which trench on that terrible bourn have a deep，though a dismal interest.
4.On a fine，clear day，when the winds of March have dried the heath，and the dark surface，obedient to the action of the sun，becomes soon warm，and turns the exhalations，which steal from the marsh，upward，so that they are dissipated in the higher atmosphere，and cross not that boundary to injure the more cultivated and fertile places，even the sterile heath and the stagnant pool，though adverse to our cultivation，have their uses in wild nature.But for these，in a climate like ours，and in the absence of nature，the chain of life would speedily be broken.
5.Upon such a day，it is not unpleasant to ramble toward the abode of the bittern，and to those especially who dwell where all around isart，and where the tremulous motion of the ever-trundling wheel of society dizzies the understanding，till one fancies that the stable laws of nature turn round in concert with the minor revolutions of our pursuits，it is far from being unprofitable.Man，so circumstanced，is apt to descend as low，or even lower，than those unclad men of the woods whom he despises；and there is no better way of enabling him to win back his birthright as a rational and reflecting being，than the taste of the cup of wild nature，even though its acerbity should make him writhe at the time.That is the genuine medicine of the mind，far better than all the opiates of the library；and the bounding pulse of glowing and glorious thought returns all the sooner for its being a little drastic.
6.In the tuft of tall herbage，not very far from the firm ground，but yet placed so near，or rather in the water，that you can not very easily reach it，the bittern may be close all the time，wakeful，noting you well，and holding herself prepared to “keep her castle；”but you can not rouse her by shouting，or even by throwing stones，the last of which is treason against nature，in a place solely under nature’s dominion.Wait till the sun is down，and the last glimmer of the twilight has got westward of the zenith，and then return to the place where you expect the bird.
7.The reeds begin to rustle with the little winds，in which the day settles accounts with the night；but there is a shorter and sharper rustle，accompanied by the brush of rather a powerful wing.You look around the dim horizon，but there is no bird；another rustle of the wing，and another，still weaker and weaker，but not a moving thing between you and the sky around.You feel rather disappointed；foolish，if you are daring；fearful，if you are timid.Anon，a burst of savage and uncouth laughter breaks over you，piercingly，or rather gratingly loud，and so unwonted and odd，that it sounds as if the voices of a bull and a horse were combined，the former breaking down his bellow to suit the neigh of the latter，in mocking you from the sky.