I initial t was in the depths of a wonderful forest, green with summer and hoary with age. He was sitting on the ground in a small open space. No path led to this or away from it, but all around him grew grasses and plants which would be natural coverts for wild creatures. No human tread had ever crushed those plants.

The soft vivid light resting on the woods was not morning-light nor evening-light: it was clear light without the hours. Yet the time must have been near noonday; for as Webster looked straight up toward the unseen sky, barred from his eyes by the forest roof of leaves, slender beams of sunlight filtered perpendicularly down, growing mistier as they descended until they could be traced no longer even as luminous vapour; no palest radiance from them reached the grass.

He could not see far in any direction. At the edge of the open space where he sat, fallen rotten trees lay amid the standing live ones—parents, grandparents, great-grandparents of the rising forest, passing back into the soil of the planet toward the rocks.

Strange as was the spot, stranger was Webster to himself and did not know what had changed him. It seemed that for the first time in his life his eyes were fully opened; never had he seen with such vision; and his feeling was so deep, so intense. The whole scene was enchantment. It was more than reality. He was more than reality. The singing of birds far away—it was so crystal sweet, yet he could see none. A few yards from him a rivulet made its way from somewhere to somewhere. He could trace its course by the growth of plants which crowded its banks and covered it with their leaves.

Expectancy weighed heavily on him. He was there for a purpose but could not say what the purpose was.

All at once as his eyes were fixed on the low, green thicket opposite him, he saw that it was shaken; something was on its way to him. He watched the top of the thicket being parted to the right and to the left. With a great leaping of his heart he waited, motionless where he sat on the grass. What creature could be coming? Then he saw just within the edge of the thicket a curious piece of head-gear—he had no knowledge of any such hat. Then he saw a gun barrel. Then the hand and forearm of a man was thrust forward and it pushed the underbrush aside; and then there stepped forth into the open the figure of a hunter, lean, vigorous, tall, athletic. The hunter stepped out with a bold stride or two and stopped and glanced eagerly around with an air of one in a search; he discovered Webster and with a look of relief stood still and smiled.

There could be no mistake. Webster held imprinted on memory from a picture those features, those all-seeing eyes; it was Wilson—weaver lad of Paisley, wandering peddler youth of the grey Scotch mountains, violinist, flutist, the poet who had burned his poem standing in the public cross, the exile, the school teacher for whom the boy caught the mouse, the failure who sent the drawing to Thomas Jefferson, the bold figure in the skiff drifting down the Ohio—the naturalist plunging into the Kentucky wilderness and walking to Lexington and shivering in White's garret—the great American ornithologist, the immortal man.

There he stood: how could it be? It was reality yet more than reality.

The hunter walked straight toward him with the light of recognition in his eyes. He came and stood before Webster and looked down at him with a smile:

"Have you found him, Webster?"

Webster strangely heard his own voice:

"I have not found him."

"You have looked long?"

"I have looked everywhere and I cannot find him."

The hunter sat down and laid on the grass beside him his fowling piece, his game bag holding new species of birds, and his portfolio of fresh drawings. Then he turned upon Webster a searching look as if to draw the inmost truth out of him and asked:

"Why do you look for the Kentucky Warbler?"

Webster hesitated long:

"I do not know," he faltered.

"Something in you makes you seek him, but you do not know what that something is?"

"No, I do not know what it is: I know I wish to find him."

"Not him alone but many other things?"

"Yes, many other things."

"The whole wild life of the forest?"

"Yes, all the wild things in the forest—and the wild forest itself."

"You wish to know about these things—you wish to know them?"

"I wish to know them."

The hunter searched Webster's countenance more keenly, more severely:

"Are you sure?"

There was silence. The forest was becoming more wonderful. The singing of the unseen birds more silvery sweet. It was beyond all reality. Webster answered:

"I am sure."

The hunter hurled questions now with no pity:

"Would you be afraid to stay here all night alone?"

"I would not."

"If, during the night, a storm should pass over the forest with thunder deafening you and lightning flashing close to your eyes and trees falling everywhere, you would fear for your life and that would be natural and wise; but would you come again?"

"I would."

"If it were winter and the forest were bowed deep with ice and snow and you were alone in it, having lost your way, would you cry enough? Would you hunt for a fireside and never return?"

"I would not."

"You can stand cold and hunger and danger and fatigue; can you be patient and can you be persevering?"

"I can."

"Look long and not find what you look for and still not give up?"

"I can."

There was silence for a little while: the mood of the hunter seemed to soften:

"Do you know where you are, Webster?"

"I do not know where I am."

"You did not know then, that this is the wilderness of your forefathers—the Kentucky pioneers. You have wandered back to it."

"I did not know."

"Have you read their great story?"

"Not much of it."

"Are you beginning to realise what it means to be sprung from such men and women?"

"I cannot say."

"But you want to do great things?"

"If I loved them."

The hunter stood up and gathered his belongings together. His questions had become more kind as though he were satisfied. He struck Webster on his shoulder.

"Come," he said, as with high trust, "I will show you the Kentucky warbler."

He looked around and his eyes fell upon the forest brook. He walked over to it, to discover in what direction it ran and beckoned.

"We'll follow this stream up: the spring may not be far away." He glanced at the tree-tops: "It is nearly noon: the bird will come to the spring to drink and to bathe."

Webster followed the hunter as he threaded his way through the forest toward the source of the brook.

Not many yards off his guide turned:

"There is the spring," he said, pointing to a green bank out of which bubbled the cool current.

"Let us sit here. Make no movement and make no noise."

How tense the stillness! They waited and listened. Finally the hunter spoke in an undertone:

"Did you hear that?"

Away off in the forest Webster heard the song of a bird. Presently it came nearer. Now it was nearer still. It sounded at last within the thicket just above the spring, clear, sweet, bold, emphatic notes distinctly repeated at short intervals. And then—

There he was—the Kentucky Warbler!

Webster could see every mark of identification. The bird had come out of the dense growth and showed himself on the bough of a sapling about twenty feet from the earth, in his grace and shapeliness and manly character. With a swift, gliding flight downward he lighted on a sweeping limb of a tree still nearer, within a few inches of the ground. Then he dropped to the ground and moved about, turning over dead leaves. He was only several yards away and Webster could plainly trace the yellow line over his eye, the blackish crown and black sides of the throat, the underparts all of solid yellowish gold, the upper parts of olive green. An instant later the bird was on the wing again, hither, thither, up and down, continually in motion. No white in the wings, none in the tail feathers. Once he stopped and poured out his loud, musical song—unlike any other warbler's. A moment later he was on the ground again, with a manner of self-possession, dignity—as on his namesake soil, Kentucky.

Webster had sat bent over toward him, forgetful of everything else. At last drawing a deep breath, he looked around gratefully, remembering his guide.

No one was near him. Webster saw the hunter on the edge of the thicket yards away; he stood looking back, his figure dim, fading. Webster, forgetful of the bird, cried out with quick pain:

"Are you going away? Am I never to see you again?"

The voice that reached him seemed scarcely a voice; it was more like an echo, close to his ear, of a voice lost forever: