“How do they plague them?” I demanded.
“Pull their pine needles when they are asleep, of course,” she answered. “Thank you for letting me walk here.”
“Not at all,” said I, “it is always a pleasure to entertain a true naturalist.”
She smiled, and made to pass on. I stood a little aside, in silence. And in that moment of silence suddenly, from near at hand, from somewhere in these very pines, there rang out the golden throb of a hermit thrush so close that the grace notes of his song were audible, cool and liquid and lovely. The suddenness, the nearness, the wildness of this song made it indescribably thrilling, and the girl and I both stood rigid, breathless, peering into the gloom of the pines. Again the call rang out, but a little farther away this time, more plaintive, more fairylike with distance. She took a step as if to follow, and instinctively I put out my hand, grasping her arm to restrain her. So we stood and waited, while from farther still, evidently from the tamaracks in the corner of my lot, came the elfin clarion. The singer was a good one; his attack was flawless, and he scattered his triplets with Mozartian ease and precision. Still we waited, in silence, but he did not sing again. Then in a kind of wonder the girl turned her face to mine, and in a kind of wonder I realized that I was still holding her arm. She appeared as unconscious of it as I, till I let my hand fall. Then she coloured a little, smiled a little, and said, “What was it? I never heard anything so beautiful.”
“A hermit thrush,” I answered. “Thoreau once described his song as ’cool bars of melody from the everlasting morning or evening.’ I think that expresses it as well as words can.”
“I have always wanted to hear a hermit,” she said wistfully. “And, oh, it is lovelier than I dreamed! I am going now before I get too jealous of you for having one all your own.”
“Don’t go!” I said impulsively. “The hermit has never sung for me. That song must have been in your honour.”
The moment when I stood holding her arm, the moment when she had turned her wondering, eager face to mine, had been very pleasant. It was dusk now in the pines, and, looking westward, the low sun was making daggers of light between the trees. My ghost that I had brought up from the pump suddenly walked again, but walked in flesh and blood, with blue eyes and tilted nose. I was undeniably affected. My voice must have betrayed it as I repeated, “Don’t go!”
“But I fear it is time for my supper,” she said, with a little nervous laugh. “The thrush has evidently gone for his.”
“Birds eat early,” said I. “They have to, because they get up so early, after that worm.”