"Angles of water-fowl winnowed the purple sky, Clanging their trumpet notes As if from brazen throats, And seeming to fan the star-dust with their wings." -Thompson. 66 The Music of the Marsh "P AT O'ROURKE! Pat O'Rourke! Pat "Got drunk! Got drunk! Got drunk!" echoes Mother Bullfrog's contralto, responsive. "Keel 'im! Keel 'im! Keel 'im!" pipes the youngster's shrill treble. Thus the frogs sing the opening chorus. Through earth's long winter sleep the marsh lies the barest and dreariest of places. With the first The black frost all its tender, succulent water plants Prelude and vines droop their graceful heads and become masses of decaying vegetation. Stripped of June's riot of foliage and bloom, the bushes stand bare and scraggy. The trees reach heavenward stark branches, like bony fingers, as if imploring the powers of nature to come quickly and reclothe |