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Dick was right, it was the butterbump, as the fen people called the great brown bittern, which passed its days in the thickest parts of the bog, and during the darkness rose on high, to circle round and over the unfortunate frogs that were to form its supper, and utter its peculiar bellowing roar. Dick had never heard it so closely before, and he was half startled by the weird cry.
"But Mr Bootherboomp!" roared Tom, bursting into a second fit of laughter. "It's butterbump, Mr Marston. It's what they call those tall brown birds something like herons. What do you call them in London?" said Dick. "Oh, bitterns!" "Yes, that's it. Come on!" "Nay," said Dave; "I don't think you gentlemen would care for such poor sport. On'y a few fish'." "You never mind about that!
It was very dark, not a star to be seen; but the bull was bellowing away in the most peculiar manner, seeming as if he were now high up in the air, and now with his muzzle close to the ground practising ventriloquism. "Where am I?" said Dick aloud; and then, as the peculiar bellowing noise came apparently nearer, "Why, it's the butterbump!"
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