The Great Blue Heron is not edible, but its size makes it a desirable prize to most gunners and it is considered an especially fit mark for a rifle. The temptation is strong to condemn as an outlaw the man who kills one of these noble birds for what he terms sport, or perhaps for the purpose of what he would call having it “set up.” He, however, is acting according to his light, which is quite as bright as that which shines for most of his neighbors. The Heron is exceedingly wild, and its capture is eloquent evidence of the hunter’s prowess, while his desire to have its stuffed skin adorn his home is, from his point of view, positively commendable. That the bird is infinitely more valuable alive than dead, that its presence adds an element to the landscape more pleasing to some than could be imparted by any work of man, and that in depriving others of the privilege of observing its singularly stately grace of pose and motion he is selfish beyond expression, does not even vaguely occur to this so-called “sportsman,” who belongs in the class to whom a majestic cliff is a quarry, a noble tree, lumber. Until he has been educated to properly value the beauties of Nature, or at least realize the rights of others in them, he must be restrained by law, to the force of which even he is not blind. Only the Great Blue Heron’s extreme wariness and habit of frequenting shores and marshes where it can command an extended view of its surroundings has preserved it from extinction; but when nesting it is compelled to visit woodlands where its human enemies have better opportunities to approach it, and its only chance for safety during the breeding season is to select a retreat remote from the home of man. For this reason Great Blue Heron rookeries are exceedingly uncommon in more settled parts of the bird’s range, and north of Florida I have seen their nests in only one locality. It was the week after my visit to the Night Herons that, in northern Cayuga County, New York, I was led by a local ornithologist through one of the heaviest pieces of timber I have ever seen north of a primeval tropical forest, in search of a Great Blue Heron rookery which he knew to exist, and only my confidence in his woodsmanship gave me courage to follow him over fallen trees and through the season’s dense undergrowth, from which our passage raised such a host of mosquitoes that every step was a battle. If the vicious little insects had lived only to protect the Herons, they could not have disputed our progress more valiantly, and on reaching the birds’ stronghold, where the comparative absence of undergrowth deprived our winged foes of shelter, I congratulated myself on what, for the moment, seemed to be no insignificant feat.