I
Dawn.
The woods are silent, save for bird pipings.
In the background, verdure of young pines and ancient boles of oaks form the dim-pillared entrance to a forest shrine.
Artfully placed on tree trunk and bough are nest boxes of bark.
On one side stands a low weathercock food-house; on the other, a tall martin-house pole.
In the shade of a great oak glimmers the shallow pool of a bird bath.
Peeping at this from behind the oak, appears, vanishes and appears again the horned head of Quercus, a faun.
Stealing forth, Quercus approaches the pool, bearing in one hand an enormous pitcher plant.
Peering upward among the boughs, he raises his voice in quaint falsetto, and sings.
QUERCUS
Veery, veery!—vireo!
Waxwing wild!—warbler wary!
Ori-ori-oriole!
Seek our sanctuary!
Robin rath,
Little tail-twitcher,
Drink from my pitcher,
Dip in my bath!
Dew’s in my bath,
Rain’s in my pitcher,
Dawn’s in the greenwood eerie:
Hither, highhole!
Redpoll!
Oriole!
Vireo!—veery!
[From his pitcher plant Quercus pours into the bird bath. Skipping then to a little swinging bird-house, he sprinkles its shelf with seed from a pouch. Here he pauses dreamily; furtively takes out and fingers a pipe; blows a few notes, pauses, starts, puts it quickly away, stoops his ear to the ground, springs away to the oak, and snatches an ivied staff which stands against the trunk. The staff is designed like a martin-house pole in miniature. Placing himself on guard where a foot-path enters the glade, he calls:]
Stand yonder! Hold! who treads beneath my trees?
A VOICE
[Outside.]
A friend.
QUERCUS
A friend to what?
THE VOICE
To Song, and Song’s melodious silences.
QUERCUS
Still enter not.
The race of wings reigns in this solitude.
No foot may here intrude
Without fair passport. Tell me first your name
And cause of coming here.