And as between the hawks and other wild birds, we need not interfere.  While the water-snake was spreading himself, a small hawk, a sharp-shinned, I think, came beating over the meadow and was met by a vigilance committee of red-shouldered blackbirds.  He did not stop to eat any of them, but darted up, and they after him.  On up he went, round and round in a rapid, mounting spiral, till only one of the daring redwings followed.  I watched.  Up they went, higher than I had ever seen a blackbird venture before.  And against such unequal odds!  But the hawk was scared and had not stopped to look back.  He circled; the blackbird cut across inside and caught him on almost every round.  And still higher in pure bravado the redwing forced him.  I began to tremble for the plucky bird, when I saw him turn, half fold his shining wings, and shoot straight down—­a meteor of jet with fire flying from its opposite sides—­down, down, while I held my breath.  Suddenly the wings flashed, and he was scaling a steep incline; another flash, a turn, and he was upon a slower plane—­had thrown himself against the air and settled upon the swaying top of a brown cattail.

A quiet had been creeping over the swamp and meadow.  The dry rasp of a dragon-fly’s wings was loud in the grass.  The stream beneath the beeches darkened and grew moody as the light neared its noon intensity; the beech-leaves hung limp and silent; a catbird settled near me with dropped tail and head drawn in between her shoulders, as mute as the leaves; the Maryland yellowthroat broke into a sharp gallop of song at intervals,—­he would have to clatter a little on doomsday, if that day fell in June,—­but the intervals were far apart.  The meadow shimmered.  No part of the horizon was in sight—­only the sky overhanging the little open of grass, and this was cloudless, though far from blue.

Perhaps there was not a real sign of uneasiness anywhere except in my boat; yet I felt something ominous in this silent, stifled noon.  After all, I ought to have scotched the rusty, red-bellied water-snake leering at me now.  The croak of the great blue heron sounded again; then far away, mysterious and spirit-like, floated a soft qua, qua, qua—­the cry of the least bittern out of the heart of the swamp.

I loosed the grape-vine, put in my paddle, and turned down-stream, with an urgent desire to get out of the swamp, out where I could see about me.  I made no haste, lest the stream, the swamp, the something that made me uneasy, should know.  Not that I am superstitious, though I should have been had I lived when the land was all swamp and wood and prairie; and I should be now were I a sailor.  My boat slipped swiftly along under the thick-shadowing trees, and rounding a sharp bend, brought me to the open pond, to the sky, and to a sight that explained my disquietude.  The west, half-way to the zenith, was green—­the black-and-blue green of bruised flesh.  Out of it shot a fork of lightning, and behind it rumbled muffled thunder.