III
Shy. Quercus. Alwyn.
SHY
[Enters, carrying a nest-box.]
A hermit thrush is pleasanter to hear.
[He greets Alwyn.]
Good morning, friend! How comes it you are caught
Walking so early? Poets, I had thought,
Salute the sunrise only in their song.
ALWYN
[Smiling.]
Fie, then! You do us wrong:
We rhyming slugabeds
Walk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads,
For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark.
Poets are owls that elegize the lark.
SHY
And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales!
Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary:
Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see,
To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales,
And teach him craftily
To build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary.
ALWYN
[Patting Quercus’ shoulder.]
Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieve
My modern apprehensions: Tutor him,
Hoof, head and limb,
And let me humbly hearken. By your leave,
God shall provide the dawn,
And you the tutelage, and I—the faun.
QUERCUS
Waiting, my masters!
ALWYN
Give your pipe to me!
QUERCUS
[Holding it behind him.]
Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet.
ALWYN
Truth is more sweet than melody,
And wisdom than melodious words.
When you have learned to greet
With their own mystic speech all living birds
And minister to their necessity,
This pipe shall be restored, and we will make
Together a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake.
[In pantomime, he demands and receives the pipe from Quercus. Shy then addresses Quercus.]
SHY
This nest-box: Nail it on the barest bough
Of that tall maple. Place it well,
Like yonder one.
QUERCUS
Right, master. Now!
SHY
Soft, soft! Not so pell-mell!
You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting.
First tell me of your other questing—
Those errands which I sent you yesterday.
QUERCUS
That cowbird, master,—
SHY
Did she lay
Her egg?
QUERCUS
Indeed she did, the pest!
She laid it in a redstart’s nest;
But up I poked my nose in, nabbed it
And cracked it cursory:
Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nursery
Without a big stepchild to smother her chicks.
SHY
Old Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead?
QUERCUS
What, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches?
[He nods shrewdly.]
Wild huckleberries are growing at his head!
That almost got you in the fix:
Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it,
And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.
[Grinning.]
Eh, master, it’s your shoe that pinches!
SHY
When cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feels
Good to be wicked.
But tell me of our forest planting ground:
What shrubs and creepers have you found
And marked, to make our shelter thicket?
QUERCUS
Why, sir, to give it
Birdblithesomeness, I’ve chose
Shad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet,
Red osier, raspberry, wild rose,
Black haw, and dangleberry.
SHY
A proper list!
What trees—deciduous?
QUERCUS
Box-elder and bird cherry,
White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.
ALWYN
What make you thus?
Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?
SHY
Good poet, whist!
No more mythology.
Your faun is learning better. Truce!
ALWYN
Most humbly, my apology!
SHY
So, Quercus: and what evergreens?
QUERCUS
White spruce,
Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.
SHY
Good, fellow! Fine!
In such a shelter-tangle we can hatch
Ten thousand nestlings. Run, now! Catch
That squirrel there, before
He makes his call at your new nest-box door.
QUERCUS
[Skipping to the maple tree.]
Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho!
Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is!
When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll go
And rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses!
[Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes.]
ALWYN