I did not answer this at once, revolving it in my mind. A few days later I wrote in this wise:
“There is little to know, kind friend. Eight years ago, when I was twenty-four, I came to Idaho. I took up a homestead on the Cœur d’Alene River. I proved up on it, and I have sold all but sixteen acres. I have worked hard. I have grown horny-handed, weather-beaten and a bit gray. I live in a flannel shirt and corduroy trousers, and I eat off a pine table in the kitchen of a three-roomed shack. Lately, I have developed into a craftsman. It is a sordid enough tale—is it not?”
Conversations with Haidee were still infrequent. Wanza ordinarily shared them, and Joey was nearly always present.
We were seated in a group about the pool in the Dingle, one morning, Haidee in her chair, Joey at her feet with Jingles asleep at his side, Wanza on the brink of the pool with her tatting, gazing in from time to time at the reflection of her pale blonde loveliness, while I, seated on a stump of a pine tree, was carving a bow-gun for Joey.
There was a white syringa bush above Haidee that was dropping pale flowers on her head. They seemed to me like perfumed petals of Paradise. I caught one as it fell, smiling into her tranquil eyes. I said to myself that with each succeeding day Haidee’s voice grew lighter, her laughter more frequent, her expression brighter.
As we sat there, an entrancing harmony arose about us. Waves of ecstatic melody swelled and softened and swelled again through the green fragrant woods. Trills on one hand, deep throaty mellow carolings on the other. The thrush, the warbler, the sparrow joined in a mighty chorus.
“What a magnificent orchestra,” Haidee cried. “The birds are holding high carnival.”
The pearl-like, throbbing symphony grew sweeter and sweeter. We sat spellbound drinking in the enchantment with hungry ears. Suddenly I cried:
“Look! There is a lazuli-bunting.”
I pointed to the feathered blue beauty that was winging its way to a nearby maple.