“Oh yes,” said Uncle Thomas, “there are a great many varieties, some of which are to be found in almost every part of the world. They have been seen in all parts of America; and when some adventurous traveller penetrates into the wild deserts of Africa, he sees the solitary Heron sitting in the same watchful attitude on the banks of those unfrequented rivers and marshes, seeking his prey just as we see them here. They like those countries most, however, which are covered with tall forests, and which abound in rivers and stagnant waters, as in those places they can most readily obtain their food, which they devour in immense quantities. In the Backwoods of America, accordingly, they are very abundant. Here is a description of the haunts of the Great Heron, and of his habits, which will convey more information to you in a few lines than I could give you in as many pages:— “Their favourite places for building and rearing their young are generally in the gloomy solitudes of the tallest cedar swamps, where, if unmolested, they continue annually to breed for many years. These swamps are from half a mile to a mile in breadth, and sometimes five or six in length, and appear as if they occupied the former channel of some choked-up river, stream, lake, or arm of the sea. The appearance they present to a stranger is singular: a front of tall and perfectly straight trunks, rising to the height of fifty or sixty feet, without a limb, and crowded in every direction, their tops so closely woven together as to shut out the day, spreading the gloom of a perpetual twilight below. On a nearer approach they are found to rise out of the water, which, from the impregnation of the fallen leaves and roots of the cedars, is of the colour of brandy. Amidst this bottom of congregated springs, the ruins of the former forest lie piled in every state of confusion. The roots, prostrate logs, and in many places the water, are covered with green mantling moss; while an undergrowth of laurel, fifteen or twenty feet high, intersects every opening so completely as to render a passage through laborious and harassing beyond description; at every step you either sink to the knees, clamber over fallen timber, squeeze yourself through between the stubborn laurels, or plunge to the middle in ponds made by the uprooting of large trees, and which the moss concealed from observation. In calm weather the silence of death reigns in these dreary regions; a few interrupted rays of light shoot across the gloom; and, unless for the occasional hollow screams of the Herons, and the melancholy chirping of one or two species of small birds, all is silence, solitude, and desolation. When a breeze rises, at first it sighs mournfully through the tops; but, as the gale increases, the tall, mast-like cedars wave like fishing-poles, and, rubbing against each other, produce a variety of singular noises, that, with the help of a little imagination, resemble shrieks, groans, or the growling of