We took our guns and cartridges, and plunged down from the cliff to the marsh. As we did so there rose about me a brown cloud, which in a moment I realized was composed of mosquitoes--a crazy, savage, bloodthirsty mob. They beset me on all sides,--they were in my hair, my eyes, nose, ears, mouth, neck. I brushed frantically at them, but a drowning man might as well try to brush back the water as it closes in. "Where's the bottle?" I gasped. "What bottle?" said Jonathan, innocently. Jonathan is human. "The tar and sweet oil. Quick!" "Oh! I thought you preferred the mosquitoes." Yes, Jonathan _is_ human. "Never mind what you _thought_!" and I snatched greedily at the blessed little bottle. I poured the horrid stuff on my face, my neck, my hands, I out-Jonathaned Jonathan; then I took a deep breath of relief as the mosquito mob withdrew to a respectful distance. Jonathan reached for the bottle. "Oh, I can just as well carry it," I said, and tucked it into one of my hunting-coat pockets. Jonathan chuckled gently, but I did not care. Nothing should part me from that little bottle of ill-smelling stuff. We started on again, out across the marsh. Enough light had come to show us the gray-green level, full of mists and little glimmers of water, and dotted with low haycocks, their dull, tawny yellow showing softly in the faint dawn light. "Hark!" said Jonathan. We paused. Through the fog came a faint, whistling call, in descending half-tones, indescribable, coming out of nowhere, sounding now close beside us, now very far away. "Yellowlegs," said Jonathan. "We aren't a bit too soon." We pushed out into the midst of the marsh, now sinking knee-deep in the spongy bed, now walking easily on a stretch of firm turf, now stepping carefully over a boundary ditch of unknown depth--out to the haycocks, where we sank down, each beside one, to wait for the birds to move. I do not know how long we waited. The haycock was warm, the night wind had fallen, the gray sky was turning white, with primrose tones in the east; the morning star paled and disappeared; the marsh mists partly lifted, and revealed far inland the soft, dark masses of encircling woods. And every little while came the whistling call, plaintive, yet curiously hurried, coming from nowhere. I lay back against the hay, and, contrary to orders, I let my gun slip down beside me. The fact was, I had half forgotten that anything definite was expected of me, and when suddenly I heard a warning "Look out!" from Jonathan's mow, I was in no way prepared. There was a rush of wings; the air was full of the whistling notes of the birds as they flew; they passed over us, circling, rising, sinking, sweeping far up the marsh, then, as Jonathan whistled their call, circling back again out of the mist at incredible speed.