Chapter III: Shy. Quercus. Alwyn

SHY

[_Enters, carrying a nest-box._]

A hermit thrush is pleasanter to hear.

[_He greets_ ALWYN.]

Good morning, friend! How comes it _you_ are caught
Walking so early? Poets, I had thought,
Salute the sunrise only in their song.

ALWYN

[_Smiling._]

Fie, then! You do us wrong:
We rhyming slugabeds
Walk with Aurora at our pillows’ heads,
For dreamers can see dawn rise in the dark.
Poets are owls that elegize the lark.

SHY

And now you’ll talk to me of nightingales!
Three birds exhaust your bard’s vocabulary:
Larks, nightingales and owls! High time, you see,
To wean this fellow from your piper’s tales,
And teach him craftily
To build our hungry birds a homelike sanctuary.

ALWYN

[_Patting_ QUERCUS’ _shoulder_.]

Good Shy, no schooling could so much relieve
My modern apprehensions: Tutor him,
Hoof, head and limb,
And let me humbly hearken. By your leave,
God shall provide the dawn,
And you the tutelage, and I—the faun.

QUERCUS

Waiting, my masters!

ALWYN

Give your pipe to me!

QUERCUS

[_Holding it behind him._]

Must I give up my pipe? The sound is sweet.

ALWYN

Truth is more sweet than melody,
And wisdom than melodious words.
When you have learned to greet
With their own mystic speech all living birds
And minister to their necessity,
This pipe shall be restored, and we will make
Together a new song, more sweet for knowledge’ sake.

[_In pantomime, he demands and receives the pipe from_ QUERCUS. SHY
_then addresses_ QUERCUS.]

SHY

This nest-box: Nail it on the barest bough
Of that tall maple. Place it well,
Like yonder one.

QUERCUS

Right, master. Now!

SHY

Soft, soft! Not so pell-mell!
You’ll scare that nuthatch at her nesting.
First tell me of your other questing—
Those errands which I sent you yesterday.

QUERCUS

That cowbird, master,—

SHY

Did she lay
Her egg?

QUERCUS

Indeed she did, the pest!
She laid it in a redstart’s nest;
But up I poked my nose in, nabbed it
And cracked it cursory:
Good Mama Redstart now can hatch her nursery
Without a big stepchild to smother her chicks.

SHY

Old Deacon Rathburne’s tom-cat, is he—dead?

QUERCUS

What, Tom, that dabbled in gore the wee goldfinches?

[_He nods shrewdly._]

Wild huckleberries are growing at his head!
That almost got _you_ in the fix:
Old Deacon saw me do it, blabbed it,
And Missus sicked her dachshund at my heels.

[_Grinning._]

Eh, master, it’s _your_ shoe that pinches!

SHY

When cats invade bird-temples, boy, it feels
Good to be wicked.
But tell me of our forest planting ground:
What shrubs and creepers have you found
And marked, to make our shelter thicket?

QUERCUS

Why, sir, to give it
Birdblithesomeness, I’ve chose
Shad bush, blue cornel, withe rod, privet,
Red osier, raspberry, wild rose,
Black haw, and dangleberry.

SHY

A proper list!
What trees—deciduous?

QUERCUS

Box-elder and bird cherry,
White ash, gray birch and cockspur thorn.

ALWYN

What make you thus?
Some sylvan pound, to stalk an unicorn?

SHY

Good poet, whist!
No more mythology.
Your faun is learning better. Truce!

ALWYN

Most humbly, my apology!

SHY

So, Quercus: and what evergreens?

QUERCUS

White spruce,
Red cedar, balsam fir, and Norway pine.

SHY

Good, fellow! Fine!
In such a shelter-tangle we can hatch
Ten thousand nestlings. Run, now! Catch
That squirrel there, before
He makes his call at your new nest-box door.

QUERCUS

[_Skipping to the maple tree._]

Right, master!—Heigh, Sir Alwyn—ho!
Just see now what a jack-o’-trades your Quercus is!
When Master Shy discharges me, I’ll go
And rent nine fairy-rings, and start three circuses!

[_Climbing among the branches, he disappears, whistling bird-notes._]

ALWYN
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