  IDawn. 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. 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 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. 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. IIQuercus. Alwyn. [A Young Man enters, pausing in the path.] THE MAN FFrom hence even now a piping filled mine ear With quaintish memory: familiar, Yet old, it seemed. Long since, I heard the same Lulling to paleness the white morning star Among Sicilian oaks. So here I came To spy upon the piper. Now, methinks, I know him, by those horns and merry winks. —Good morrow, Quercus, the faun! QUERCUS Now, by Lord Pan! The poet’s ear and eye still spy me out.— You!—Can it really be? ALWYN It can, And is—by Pan, our ancient pastor! But you, slant shanks, what make you here at dawn? QUERCUS Newfangleness! The classic gout Still crooks my knees with the old lyric wine, But now they run new errands. [Flourishing his staff.] Lo, the sign Of my new office! ALWYN New! What may that be? QUERCUS Wood warden of the wild birds’ sanctuary: Janitor of their sylvan temple!—See, My staff acclaims me. Poor Mercutius! Old mythologic nature-faker, He’s out of date with his caduceus. Behold in me A modern science-tutored fairy Grand marshal of the martin-house! ALWYN [Pointing at Quercus’ staff.] Of that? QUERCUS Nay, this, my bard, is but the breviat And little pattern. [Pointing toward a tall martin-house pole.] Yonder, you behold The real palace. Through those portals We lure the feathered broods to fold Their wings above the world of thievish mortals. ALWYN We—say you? Who are we? QUERCUS Myself and my lord master. ALWYN And what’s he? QUERCUS Nay, if I knew, I should be wiser. He is the fellow of all friendless things, In form a man, yet footed so with silence The deer mistake him for their brother; so Swift that, meseems, he borrows the birds’ wings; An eye, that glows and twinks Through noon like twilight’s vesper star; an ear That harks a mile hence The purring of a lynx! I love him, follow, obey him, yet I know Naught of him—but his love. ALWYN Not even his name? QUERCUS Yea, what men call him by; And he is like the same. Men call him Master Shy. ALWYN Ah, Shy, the naturalist. Why, he is my good crony. If he wist How do you serve him? QUERCUS I’m crew to his Jason! I multiply myself for rare adventures, And serve his Ship of Birds as carpenter, Box-joiner, bath-cementer, mas “IS THIS IN SOOTH MINE OLD SICILIAN FAUN?” IIIShy. Quercus. Alwyn. SHY [Enters, carrying a nest-box.] AA 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! 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. 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. 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, [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. 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. [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 IVAlwyn. Shy. ALWYN SShy—honest friend, your hand once more! SHY Heartily! Welcome to this wood. ALWYN Do you recall how once we stood Here, and discoursed of songs I made of yore— Dryads and poet’s dreams? SHY Yes, I recall I wondered at them all. ALWYN First—as to-day—you smiled Your incredulity of my quaint creed, Till soon, in further converse, we agreed For both of us seek nature’s fellowship, The common language of all living things: I—more in music of the human lip, You—in the whirr of beaks and wings. So both—craving the beautiful— Still worship the same shrine and oracle: This temple, and its dryad—Tacita. SHY I will confess Of all the nymphs in your Arcadia I worship her Alone. ALWYN Because her moods are numberless I do the same. Between the heart of Man And Nature’s heart, which I do name God Pan, She stands and moves—divine interpreter, Translating with her shy and pagan dances Our world life and its trances. SHY She is, in truth, The sylvan priestess of this sanctuary. [Eagerly.] What if, through her as intermediary, And after thousand ages of uncouth Estrangement,—what, I say, if we Might find through her the key To comprehend the native speech of birds, And hold communion with them in our human words! Would not that be a modern consummation Nobler than fable? SHY Almost, I would have said, we might be able, If it were not for one who scorns this shrine And violates the beauty of creation, Marring all contemplative quietude. ALWYN Whom do you speak of? SHY One whom the red wine Of slaughter has made drunk, and the false glister Of dollars dazzled with blind arrogance. He plies a bold, sinister Traffic in wings and plumage. Not by chance But calculated orgies, he commits His venal murders, slits The bridal plumes from backs of mating birds, And leaves the nested broods Unhatched or starveling. So he girds His loins, and like the Patagonian Displays his feathered trophies: not a man Swayed by ecstatic moods, Nor even to equip A hardy sportsmanship; Not so: he slaughters birds for stocks and bonds, And when we challenge, smiling he responds: “Mine is a lawful market, where fine ladies pay For plumes, to wear on Sabbaths and Christ’s Easter day.” ALWYN What is this desecrator’s name? Stark, the plume-hunter. ALWYN Surely he dares not Track his defenseless game Here to this hallowed spot! SHY No place is holy to unhallowed minds: He covets gain, and grasps it where he finds. ALWYN Still I have faith That Tacita, in her serenity, Is mightier than he. SHY Ah, nature’s quiet mood is delicate And crushes like a flower. ALWYN Faith without works is vain, the Prophet saith. So now, while nature muses in the thrush, Here let us sit this hour, On Tacita, till meditation shall create Its own shy image.—Hush! [They sit upon a log and listen.] VTacita. Alwyn. Shy. [Dreamily, the fluting of birds sounds in the forest. Dimly from the background Tacita appears. With steps of reverie, she approaches, and pauses before them. Alwyn looks up and, touching Shy’s arm, speaks low.] TTacita! It is she! SHY Speak to her—you. Alwyn Dryad, and spirit of serenity, Whose steps have fallen timeful as the dew Upon our pathway, intervene For us with that still-undiscovered queen— Ornis, who reigns among your ancient boughs Man. Stir your spell-enchanted feet, And by their moods arouse Her hidden grace To heed us, and hold speech from realms unseen. [To mysterious music, Tacita treads a dance of invocation, appealing in pantomime to the unseen spirit of wings, which flits and sings and broods in the boughs above her. Alwyn and Shy watch her, rapt and expectant. Suddenly a sharp gun-shot sounds, shivering the music, which ceases. Through the boughs, a bird falls fluttering to the earth.] VIOrnis. Alwyn. Shy. [With a gesture of startled wildness, Tacita breaks abruptly from her rhythmic motions, and flees into the wood, while simultaneously from the other side there enters, swift but staggering, Ornis—a maiden, garbed symbolically as a bird. On one of her wing-like sleeves blood shows. With shrill, melodious cry, she flutters forward.] ORNIS EEe-Ó-lee! O-rÉe-o! Sanctuary! [Swaying, she falls to the ground. Alwyn and Shy spring toward her.] ALWYN Help, Shy! She falls! SHY [At Ornis’ side.] Wing-struck! Here’s blood. That shot? SHY The gun of Stark. [Seeking to lift her.] Up, birdling! Here is Shy. ORNIS [Droops, moaning.] O-rÉe-o! SHY Quick! Bring Quercus. ALWYN [Hastening off.] In a jot. SHY [Soothingly strokes Ornis’ arm and shoulder.] So—so! Dew water soon makes well. So—so! ORNIS [Moans dazedly.] Ir-re-o! P’tee! [ReËntering with Alwyn.] Here, master! SHY [Pointing.] Water!—There! ALWYN The bird bath! QUERCUS [Dipping his plant pitcher, hastens with it to Shy.] Coming! SHY Sprinkle. QUERCUS [Sprinkling water upon Ornis, sings gaily.] Ó-ree-o! When shawes ben sheen and shraddes full fair, And leaves both large and long, ’Tis merry walking in the fair forÉst To hear the small birds’ song! [Ornis revives.] [Assisting her.] Now, gently! ALWYN [Bending over her, calls low.] Ornis!—Sister! ORNIS Who calls? Where Am I? ALWYN In sanctuary. Have no fear. ORNIS [Looking from one to the other.] Ah, me! But what are these? SHY Your brothers, dear. ORNIS My brothers—they are birds. But you are Man. ALWYN Through Tacita you know us now; we can Speak to each other. Ornis!—Hark. [Rising in glad wonder.] At last!— At last! ALWYN A thousand ages—they are past, And dumbness, like a dream, Sinks with them into sleep. We are awake, And each to each Can bid good-morning in our common speech. ORNIS How sweet and strange! Are we indeed awaking From callous slumber and old wrong? So sorrowfully long The hand of Man has wrought my birds’ heartbreaking!— Was it a savage dream? Methought I sat on Morning’s golden beam And sang of God’s wild gladness: High and higher I showered His temple woods with ecstasy; When suddenly Shattered my wing. I fell.— Groping in flight, my feet stuck fast In smear of lime; swift from below A tangling net was cast Where, panting upward, a black hell Of bloody mouths barked under me; And there beside them—oh, There watched, with eyes of wanton cruelty, A man—bright clothed in many-colored plumes Of my dead sisters. “Save me from their dooms,” I cried, “O Sanctuary!” ALWYN And you woke With us, your brothers—healed. ORNIS [With wonder.] Oh, have you heard What now I spoke? And can we answer truly, word for word? [Curiously.] Alwyn! You know my name? ORNIS [Turning eagerly from one to the other.] Shy! SHY [Smiling.] No mistake! ORNIS Quercus! QUERCUS [Skipping with a bow.] Your birdship’s faun! ORNIS [Laughing joyously.] Good-morning, brothers! ALWYN When have you known us? ORNIS Many an age and long! No syllable has bubbled in your song But I have blown it first from yonder trees: No brooding-place of yours—but I was in the breeze; [To Quercus.] And ever to your whistle I pipe the last note from the nearest thistle. [Tacita appears remotely.] O beautiful my brothers! O dryad dear, I thank you! In your dawn, How brave it is to speak with Man and Faun As mates and fellows. Quick! Fetch me still others. [A crashing resounds in the thicket. Tacita disappears.] Who’s coming now? SHY Still others—our fellow man. ORNIS I hear a breaking bough. ALWYN Kind hearts and cruel are one clan. Hark! Surely ’tis some strange distress. Come, brothers, let us look: It may be one who needs our friendliness. Come with me! ALWYN [Calling off scene.] Stand there! Stay beyond the brook. QUERCUS [With excited gestures.] Back, ho! ORNIS [Suddenly recoiling with a cry.] Ah, save me! [She flies to their protection. Quercus also scampers back fearfully, and hides.] VIIStark. Ornis. Alwyn. Shy. [Enter Stark, in garb of a hunter. He wears a tawny leopard’s skin, and his head is gorgeously plumed. Behind him, two panting dogs are held in leash by attendants. Stark rushes toward Ornis, passes her oblivious, and seizes up the fallen bird.] STARK BBagged!—Hold off the dogs! [The Attendants withdraw with the hounds.] ORNIS [As Stark grasps the bird, clutches her own side in pain.] Ee-Ó-lo! STARK A rare beauty!—Bah, one wing Shot-torn! Well, well, we’ll patch the thing. “Sir—Here is No Hunting” [He thrusts the bird into his game pouch. Turning to leave, he sees Alwyn and Shy, and greets them gaily.] Halloa! Fine hunting weather! SHY [Quietly.] Sir, Here is No Hunting. STARK [With a laugh.] Pipe that to the frogs! SHY This ground is sanctuary. STARK And what’s that? SHY A place held sacred from the hunter’s trail. Why, man, I am no hunter, and that’s flat. I only plume myself—to trim a hat. Besides, I shot outside your pale; And now [Touching his pouch, he winks.] the game is bagged. SHY You bag the spangle And lose the spirit.—Sir, here is no place To preach or wrangle Our creeds. I am a student, not a teacher. So I would only learn of you: what joy Urges you to destroy So gracious, fair And innocent a fellow-creature As yonder? [He points at Ornis.] STARK [Looking.] Where? Our sister, who stands there And dumbly pleads for all her race— And ours. STARK By Christ in Hades, My eyes see nothing but a brace Of popinjays, who pipe to me of ladies And show me—no one. ALWYN Look more near. Speak to him, Ornis!—Listen, now! ORNIS [Drawing back in dread.] O-rÉe-o! STARK I am listening. Did you hear No voice? STARK I heard a bird call from that bough. QUERCUS [Peeping toward Shy from the bushes.] Have at him, master! SHY [To Stark.] Did you spy That fellow’s horns there, when he drew back Into the bush? STARK I saw A stirring in that staghorn sumach, And caught a rabbit’s eye.— What are these crazy quizzings? Pshaw! Good day to you! Stay yet! Once more look yonder, where my comrade stands, Turning to take the gentle, outreached hands Of our shy sister: Can you see No timid form beside him? STARK Perfectly My eyes discern A man, who peers within the morning mist, And murmurs to the air, And smiles, as if he held sweet converse there. In short, I see a sentimentalist. I am not of that ilk. [Calling]—Ho, there!—HolÁ! Wait with my dogs: I’m coming. ALWYN Stay, and learn What we ourselves have only learned through quiet Your dizzy soul has chased The spinning dollar sign which stars your zodiac, That you have lost the track Of paths serene, and pace God’s world in riot Of blinding gold. Pause, for this little space! Put off that blood-emblazed regalia Gorgeous with death, And draw with me one meditative breath Here in the temple of cool Tacita. STARK [Who has listened with half-amused curiosity.] Ah—Tacita? And who may that be, friend? ALWYN One lovelier than you have yet set eyes on. SHY Go, Quercus: Pray our mistress to attend. [Quercus goes out.] Mistress! Is she a maid?—and lovely, too? And may this wonder dawn on my horizon If I remain? ALWYN Remain—to meditate! STARK Why, now, you stir my fancies. In truth, ’tis early still, and little to do This hour. Come, I will wait And watch with you. But mind! The nymph must be More lovely than my eyes did ever see! ALWYN With loveliness more deep than eyes discover. STARK So, ’tis a bargain, then? ALWYN Sit by me here; And if your musings cause no fear, You shall behold her in her secret dances. By Hercules! I’m half prepared to love her! [He sits on the log beside Alwyn. Ornis still stands apart, under Shy’s protection. Quercus enters, beckoning backward into the wood.] “Lo, I am Ornis, and I love you still!” [Glancing at his gun.] Why, then,—why have I brought this instrument Of murder here? What black intent Clouded my mind with blood? [Flinging it from him.] Out of my hands!—My sister, can it be That still you soar above my sanguine flood Of passion, and forgive? Though yet I kill, Oh, is it true indeed—you love me still? ORNIS Ha, put me to the test! Show me the field that breeds your harvest pest Of chinch or weevil, Where all the blossoms wither with strange evil, Or where, in filmy tents, The hairy creepers gorge in regiments Your budding apple boughs; Show your ancestral elms Their green old age in death; Or those swift locust clouds, whose breath Blasts the ripe loveliness of Spring; Show these, and more Than these, and cry on Ornis! She shall bring— From hill and shore And plain—her wingÈd flocks and warbling broods, And swinge away their deadly multitudes.— If service be true love, I love you, brother. ALWYN [Drawing near.] And for her sake, so we will love each other. [He takes Stark’s right hand.] SHY [Taking his left.] A greenwood partnership! STARK [Pressing their hands.] Thanks! [Whispering to the faun.] Quercus, run! QUERCUS I skip, I gambol, master. Ha! I have a tale to tell to Tacita! [He leaps away.] ORNIS [As Stark tears off his headdress of plumes.] And those—? STARK For these my heart shall build a fire Here at this shrine: [He hangs the headdress on a tree.] And here, as on a pyre, I place them, with this pouch, which hides The victims of my blind desire. There, at sad cost, I let them tell my pain—the votive part Of one long lost, Ornis, my trail divides: There lie the ashes of the thing I was. Henceforth, I walk with you— [Turning to Alwyn and Shy.] and these. ALWYN A compact, then, we three: that when we go Forth from these gracious trees Into the world, we go as witnesses Before the men who make our country’s laws, And by our witness show In burning words The meaning of these sylvan mysteries: Freedom and sanctuary for the birds! Say, is our compact sworn? STARK I swear. SHY And I. [Enter Quercus and Tacita.] XTacita. Quercus. Stark. Ornis. Shy. Alwyn. STARK [To Ornis.] LLook, sister: friends are coming. Now lead us to their shrine close by. ORNIS Oh, first let all make joy of this our union! For now my glad heart, like a partridge drumming, Calls for my mates to join us, all together, In frolicsome communion. Ho, Quercus, Quercus, call them!—Tacita, Summon them with your fairy feet! QUERCUS [Bounding forward.] HolÁ! [Taking from his pouch Quercus’ pipe.] Call loud and long! Here’s our old pipe, to carry a new song. [Alwyn puts the pipe to his lips, while Quercus sings to it, calling to the birds. At the end, Quercus begs in pantomime for the pipe which Alwyn, smiling, restores to him.] QUERCUS Come here, come here, you little comrades coy, From hill and swamp and heather: Make joy, make joy Together!— Tawny beak and scarlet vest, Slant wing and sleek feather, Bulging bill and cocking crest, Hither! Tumble out of nest, Topple out of windy weather Here, holÁ! With preenings quaint, Purple dyes and crimson paint, Here, holÁ, in merry state! Tacita—Tacita Summons you to dedicate Here her sanctuary! [While Quercus calls, from all sides Birds of many species and colors—like Ornis human in form—gather, and peer from the edges of the scene. To these Tacita now beckons, and by her gesture summons to her dance, while Quercus plays joyously on his pipe.] ORNIS Bird and faun and man and fairy, Gather now to sanctuary! [Tacita first dances alone, then with Quercus; then, inviting and leading them all in pied procession, she marshals all away into her woodland shrine.] FINIS |
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