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Then I crossed more planted fields, climbing more barbed-wire fences, and stopping on the way to enjoy the sweetly quaint music of a little chorus of white-crowned sparrows, and skirted once more the muddy shore of the cane-swamp, where the yellowlegs and sandpipers were still feeding. Once back at the hotel, I opened my Coues's Key to refresh my memory as to the exact appearance of that bird.
But, quibbles apart, one thing I do remember: I sat for some time on the fence, in the shade of a tree, with an eye upon the cane-swamp and an ear open for bird-voices. Yes, and it comes to me at this moment that here I heard the first and only bull-frog that I heard anywhere in Florida. It was like a voice from home, and belonged with the fence. Other frogs I had heard in other places.
He looked at the pine-tree. "I can't see him," he said. No more could I. "It wasn't a blue jay, was it?" he asked. And then we talked of one thing and another, I have no idea what, till he rode away to another part of the plantation where a gang of women were at work. By this time the grosbeak had disappeared utterly. Possibly he had gone to a bit of wood on the opposite side of the cane-swamp.
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