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.