A+White+Heron

A White Heron By Sarah Orne Jewett

The woods were filled with shadows one June evening, just before eight o'clock. Light from a bright sunset glimmered against the trunks of the trees. A little girl named Sylvia was leading her cow home. They were walking away from the light into the dark woods. But they both knew the path very well. It did not matter if they could not see it.

The old cow was stubborn and smarter than you might have thought. There was hardly a night during the summer when it could be found in the pasture. Instead, it loved to wander far away. The it would hide itself in the high bushes or among the trees. The cow wore a loud bell. But it discovered that if it stood perfectly still, the bell would not ring.

Then Sylvia had to hunt for the cow. She would call, “Cow! Cow!” over and over until she found it. If the creature had not given plenty of good milk Sylvia might have grown angry. The truth was that Sylvia had lots of time. And she had very little use to make of it. So when the weather was good, Sylvia enjoyed searching for the cow. Sylvia thought of it as a game of hide-and-seek. Since there were no children in the area, Sylvia played the game with enthusiasm.

This time, though, the game had lasted nearly three hours. The cow finally gave itself away with a shake of the bell. Sylvia just laughed when she came upon the animal at the edge of a swamp. Now Sylvia used a twig of birch leaves to urge the animal in the direction of home.

Sylvia wondered what her grandmother would say because they were so late. A long time had passed since she had left home. But everyone knew that finding the cow was sometimes difficult. Her grandmother, Mrs. Tilley, had chased after the cow too many evening to blame anyone else for being late. Mrs. Tilley suspected that Sylvia took her time as she wandered about in the woods and meadows. Mrs. Tilley often said that there never was such a child for straying about out-of-doors. Still, Mrs. Tilley was grateful to have Sylvia’s help. As for Sylvia, she felt that she had never been alive at all until she came to live on the farm.

Now Sylvia and the cow were on the shady path at the edge of the woods. The cow stopped at the brook to take a long drink. Sylvia stood still and waited. She let her barefeet cool themselves in the water. Large moths, blind in the fading light, struck softly against her. She waded through the brook as the cow moved on. She listened to the sounds around her with a heart that beat fast with pleasure.

There was a stirring in the tops of the trees. They were full of little birds and animals that seemed to be wide awake and going about their business. Sylvia, herself, felt sleepy as she walked along. However, they were not very far from the house now, and the air was soft and sweet. Sylvia was not often in the woods as late as this. It made her feels as if she were part of the gray shadows and the flickering leaves. She was thinking how long it seemed since she first came to the farm a year ago. And she was wondering if things were the same in the busy, noisy town she had left.

Suddenly, she was shocked to hear a sharp whistling close by. Before she could take another step, a tall young man stepped on the path.

“Hello,” he called cheerfully. “How far is it to the main road?”

A trembling Syvia answered softly, “A little way.”

She did not dare to look straight at the stranger. He carried a gun over his shoulder. She just walked along and followed the cow. He walked alongside them.

“I have been hunting for some birds,” the stranger said kindly. “And I have lost my way and need a friend very much. Don’t be afraid,” he added. “Speak up and tell me what your name is. I’d like to go hunting early in the morning.”

Sylvia was more alarmed than before. Would her grandmother think she was to blame? But who could have known this would happen? It did not seem to be her fault. Still, she might be blamed. The stranger again asked her name. “My name is Sylvy,” she managed to answer. Mrs. Tilley was standing in the door way when the three of them came into view. The cow gave a loud moo as if to explain everything.

“Where’d that silly cow hide this time, Sylvy?” asked her grandmother. But Sylvia, still nervous, kept silent.

The young man rested his gun next to the door. Then he wished Mrs. Tilley a good evening and repeated his story. He asked if he could have a night’s lodging.

“Put me anywhere you like,” he said. I must be off early in the morning. But I am very hungry, indeed. Anything you might have to eat would do.”

“Yes, of course,” said Mrs. Tilley. “You might do better if you don’t mind walking a mile or so on the main road. But you’re welcome to what we’ve got. I’ll find you something to eat right now. You make yourself at home. Now step round and set a plat for the gentleman, Sylvy.”

Sylvia stepped promptly. She was glad to have something to do. And she was hungry herself.

Afterward, the gentleman said that this was the best supper he had eaten for a month. Then the three of them sat on the porch while the moon came up.

“Sylvia loves the countryside,” grandmother Tilley was saying. “There’s not a foot of this land she doesn’t know. The wild creatures count her as one of their own. Squirrels come right over and eat out of her hands. The birds do that, too.”

The guest suddenly seemed very interested. “So Sylvia knows all about birds, does she?” he exclaimed. “I have been collecting birds ever since I was a little boy. There are two or three very rare ones I have been hunting for the past five years. I mean to get them if they can be found.”

“Do you put them in cages?” asked Mrs. Tilley.

“Oh, no. They’re stuffed and preserved. I have dozens and dozens of them. And I have shot or caught every one of them myself. I caught a glimpse of a white heron three miles from there on Saturday. I followed it in this direction. They have never been found around here at all.”