Chapter I: Dawn

_The woods are silent, save for bird pipings._

_In the background, verdure of young pines and ancient boles of oaks
form the dim-pillared entrance to a forest shrine._

_Artfully placed on tree trunk and bough are nest boxes of bark._

_On one side stands a low weathercock food-house; on the other, a tall
martin-house pole._

_In the shade of a great oak glimmers the shallow pool of a bird
bath._

_Peeping at this from behind the oak, appears, vanishes and appears
again the horned head of_ QUERCUS, _a faun_.

_Stealing forth_, QUERCUS _approaches the pool, bearing in one hand an
enormous pitcher plant_.

_Peering upward among the boughs, he raises his voice in quaint
falsetto, and sings._

QUERCUS

Veery, veery!—vireo!
Waxwing wild!—warbler wary!
Ori-ori-oriole!
Seek our sanctuary!
Robin rath,
Little tail-twitcher,
Drink from my pitcher,
Dip in my bath!
Dew’s in my bath,
Rain’s in my pitcher,
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.

QUERCUS

A friend to what?

THE VOICE

To Song, and Song’s melodious silences.

QUERCUS

Still enter not.
The race of wings reigns in this solitude.
No foot may here intrude
Without fair passport. Tell me first your name
And cause of coming here.