Part I
The woods were already filled with shadows one June evening, just before eight o'clock, though a bright sunset still glimmered faintly among the trunks of the trees. A little girl was driving home her cow, a plodding, dilatory, provoking creature in her behavior, but a valued companion for all that. They were going away from whatever light there was, and striking deep into the woods, but their feet were familiar with the path, and it was no matter whether their eyes could see it or not.
There was hardly a night the summer through when the old cow could be found waiting at the pasture bars; on the contrary, it was her greatest pleasure to hide herself away among the high huckleberry bushes, and though she wore a loud bell she had made the discovery that if one stood perfectly still it would not ring. So Sylvia had to hunt for her until she found her, and call Co'! Co'! with never an answering Moo, until her childish patience was quite spent. If the creature had not given good milk and plenty of it, the case would have seemed very different to her owners. Besides, Sylvia had all the time there was, and very little use to make of it. Sometimes in pleasant weather it was a consolation to look upon the cow's pranks as an intelligent attempt to play hide and seek, and as the child had no playmates she lent herself to this amusement with a good deal of zest. Though this chase had been so long that the wary animal herself had given an unusual signal of her whereabouts, Sylvia had only laughed when she came upon Mistress Moolly at the swamp-side, and urged her affectionately homeward with a twig of birch leaves. The old cow was not inclined to wander farther, she even turned in the right direction for once as they left the pasture, and stepped along the road at a good pace. She was quite ready to be milked now, and seldom stopped to browse. Sylvia wondered what her grandmother would say because they were so late. It was a great while since she had left home at half-past five o'clock, but everybody knew the difficulty of making this errand a short one. Mrs. Tilley had chased the hornéd torment too many summer evenings herself to blame any one else for lingering, and was only thankful as she waited that she had Sylvia, nowadays, to give such valuable assistance. The good woman suspected that Sylvia loitered occasionally on her own account; there never was such a child for straying about out-of-doors since the world was made! Everybody said that it was a good change for a little maid who had tried to grow for eight years in a crowded manufacturing town, but, as for Sylvia herself, it seemed as if she never had been alive at all before she came to live at the farm. She thought often with wistful compassion of a wretched geranium that belonged to a town neighbor.
"'Afraid of folks,'" old Mrs. Tilley said to herself, with a smile, after she had made the unlikely choice of Sylvia from her daughter's houseful of children, and was returning to the farm. "'Afraid of folks,' they said! I guess she won't be troubled no great with 'em up to the old place!" When they reached the door of the lonely house and stopped to unlock it, and the cat came to purr loudly, and rub against them, a deserted pussy, indeed, but fat with young robins, Sylvia whispered that this was a beautiful place to live in, and she never should wish to go home.
The companions followed the shady wood-road, the cow taking slow steps and the child very fast ones. The cow stopped long at the brook to drink, as if the pasture were not half a swamp, and Sylvia stood still and waited, letting her bare feet cool themselves in the shoal water, while the great twilight moths struck softly against her. She waded on through the brook as the cow moved away, and listened to the thrushes with a heart that beat fast with pleasure. There was a stirring in the great boughs overhead. They were full of little birds and beasts that seemed to be wide awake, and going about their world, or else saying good-night to each other in sleepy twitters. Sylvia herself felt sleepy as she walked along. However, it was not much farther to the house, and the air was soft and sweet. She was not often in the woods so late as this, and it made her feel as if she were a part of the gray shadows and the moving leaves. She was just thinking how long it seemed since she first came to the farm a year ago, and wondering if everything went on in the noisy town just the same as when she was there, the thought of the great red-faced boy who used to chase and frighten her made her hurry along the path to escape from the shadow of the trees.
Suddenly this little woods-girl is horror-stricken to hear a clear whistle not very far away. Not a bird's-whistle, which would have a sort of friendliness, but a boy's whistle, determined, and somewhat aggressive. Sylvia left the cow to whatever sad fate might await her, and stepped discreetly aside into the bushes, but she was just too late. The enemy had discovered her, and called out in a very cheerful and persuasive tone, "Halloa, little girl, how far is it to the road?" and trembling Sylvia answered almost inaudibly, "A good ways." She did not dare to look boldly at the tall young man, who carried a gun over his shoulder, but she came out of her bush and again followed the cow, while he walked alongside.
"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 gallantly. "Speak up and tell me what your name is, and whether you think I can spend the night at your house, and go out gunning early in the morning."
Sylvia was more alarmed than before. Would not her grandmother consider her much to blame? But who could have foreseen such an accident as this? It did not seem to be her fault, and she hung her head as if the stem of it were broken, but managed to answer "Sylvy," with much effort when her companion again asked her name.
Mrs. Tilley was standing in the doorway when the trio came into view. The cow gave a loud moo by way of explanation.
"Yes, you'd better speak up for yourself, you old trial! Where'd she tucked herself away this time, Sylvy?" But Sylvia kept an awed silence; she knew by instinct that her grandmother did not comprehend the gravity of the situation. She must be mistaking the stranger for one of the farmer-lads of the region. The young man stood his gun beside the door, and dropped a lumpy game-bag beside it; then he bade Mrs. Tilley good-evening, and repeated his wayfarer's story, and asked if he could have a night's lodging.
"Put me anywhere you like," he said. "I must be off early in the morning, before day; but I am very hungry, indeed. You can give me some milk at any rate, that's plain."
"Dear sakes, yes," responded the hostess, whose long slumbering hospitality seemed to be easily awakened. "You might fare better if you went out to the main road a mile or so, but you're welcome to what we've got. I'll milk right off, and you make yourself at home. You can sleep on husks or feathers," she proffered graciously. "I raised them all myself. There's good pasturing for geese just below here towards the ma'sh. Now step round and set a plate for the gentleman, Sylvy!" And Sylvia promptly stepped. She was glad to have something to do, and she was hungry herself.
It was a surprise to find so clean and comfortable a little dwelling in this New England wilderness. The young man had known the horrors of its most primitive housekeeping, and the dreary squalor of that level of society which does not rebel at the companionship of hens. This was the best thrift of an old-fashioned farmstead, though on such a small scale that it seemed like a hermitage. He listened eagerly to the old woman's quaint talk, he watched Sylvia's pale face and shining gray eyes with ever growing enthusiasm, and insisted that this was the best supper he had eaten for a month, and afterward the new-made friends sat down in the door-way together while the moon came up.
Soon it would be berry-time, and Sylvia was a great help at picking. The cow was a good milker, though a plaguy thing to keep track of, the hostess gossiped frankly, adding presently that she had buried four children, so Sylvia's mother, and a son (who might be dead) in California were all the children she had left. "Dan, my boy, was a great hand to go gunning," she explained sadly. "I never wanted for pa'tridges or gray squer'ls while he was to home. He's been a great wand'rer, I expect, and he's no hand to write letters. There, I don't blame him, I'd ha' seen the world myself if it had been so I could. "Sylvy takes after him," the grandmother continued affectionately, after a minute's pause. "There ain't a foot o' ground she don't know her way over, and the wild creaturs counts her one o' themselves. Squer'ls she'll tame to come an' feed right out o' her hands, and all sorts o' birds. Last winter she got the jay-birds to bangeing here, and I believe she'd 'a' scanted herself of her own meals to have plenty to throw out amongst 'em, if I hadn't kep' watch. Anything but crows, I tell her, I'm willin' to help support,—though Dan he had a tamed one o' them that did seem to have reason same as folks. It was round here a good spell after he went away. Dan an' his father they didn't hitch,—but he never held up his head ag'in after Dan had dared him an' gone off."
The guest did not notice this hint of family sorrows in his eager interest in something else.
"So Sylvy knows all about birds, does she?" he exclaimed, as he looked round at the little girl who sat, very demure but increasingly sleepy, in the moonlight. "I am making a collection of birds myself. I have been at it ever since I was a boy." (Mrs. Tilley smiled.) "There are two or three very rare ones I have been hunting for these five years. I mean to get them on my own ground if they can be found."
"Do you cage 'em up?" asked Mrs. Tilley doubtfully, in response to this enthusiastic announcement.
"Oh no, they're stuffed and preserved, dozens and dozens of them," said the ornithologist, "and I have shot or snared every one myself. I caught a glimpse of a white heron a few miles from here on Saturday, and I have followed it in this direction. They have never been found in this district at all. The little white heron, it is," and he turned again to look at Sylvia with the hope of discovering that the rare bird was one of her acquaintances. But Sylvia was watching a hop-toad in the narrow footpath.
"You would know the heron if you saw it," the stranger continued eagerly. "A queer tall white bird with soft feathers and long thin legs. And it would have a nest perhaps in the top of a high tree, made of sticks, something like a hawk's nest."
Sylvia's heart gave a wild beat; she knew that strange white bird, and had once stolen softly near where it stood in some bright green swamp grass, away over at the other side of the woods. There was an open place where the sunshine always seemed strangely yellow and hot, where tall, nodding rushes grew, and her grandmother had warned her that she might sink in the soft black mud underneath and never be heard of more. Not far beyond were the salt marshes just this side the sea itself, which Sylvia wondered and dreamed much about, but never had seen, whose great voice could sometimes be heard above the noise of the woods on stormy nights.
"I can't think of anything I should like so much as to find that heron's nest," the handsome stranger was saying. "I would give ten dollars to anybody who could show it to me," he added desperately, "and I mean to spend my whole vacation hunting for it if need be. Perhaps it was only migrating, or had been chased out of its own region by some bird of prey."
Mrs. Tilley gave amazed attention to all this, but Sylvia still watched the toad, not divining, as she might have done at some calmer time, that the creature wished to get to its hole under the door-step, and was much hindered by the unusual spectators at that hour of the evening. No amount of thought, that night, could decide how many wished-for treasures the ten dollars, so lightly spoken of, would buy. The next day the young sportsman hovered about the woods, and Sylvia kept him company, having lost her first fear of the friendly lad, who proved to be most kind and sympathetic. He told her many things about the birds and what they knew and where they lived and what they did with themselves. And he gave her a jack-knife, which she thought as great a treasure as if she were a desert-islander. All day long he did not once make her troubled or afraid except when he brought down some unsuspecting singing creature from its bough. Sylvia would have liked him vastly better without his gun; she could not understand why he killed the very birds he seemed to like so much. But as the day waned, Sylvia still watched the young man with loving admiration. She had never seen anybody so charming and delightful; the woman's heart, asleep in the child, was vaguely thrilled by a dream of love. Some premonition of that great power stirred and swayed these young creatures who traversed the solemn woodlands with soft-footed silent care. They stopped to listen to a bird's song; they pressed forward again eagerly, parting the branches,—speaking to each other rarely and in whispers; the young man going first and Sylvia following, fascinated, a few steps behind, with her gray eyes dark with excitement.
She grieved because the longed-for white heron was elusive, but she did not lead the guest, she only followed, and there was no such thing as speaking first. The sound of her own unquestioned voice would have terrified her,—it was hard enough to answer yes or no when there was need of that. At last evening began to fall, and they drove the cow home together, and Sylvia smiled with pleasure when they came to the place where she heard the whistle and was afraid only the night before.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
“Vaguely” means uncertainly or in a way that is faint or unclear. Although Sylvia is still a child, she experiences the first stirrings of romantic feelings for someone, specifically the young hunter. “Woman’s heart” is an implied metaphor for a woman’s emotions, especially those of love; it is personified as sleeping within Sylvia.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
Sylvia’s feelings about the young hunter have changed since their first meeting. She enjoys his companionship as they spend the day together, but she is still troubled by his killing song birds in the woods.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
A jackknife is a small knife with a folding blade. Sylvia’s thinking of it as a treasure suggests that she has few personal possessions.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
Previous details in the story indicate that money is scarce in Sylvia and Mrs. Tilley’s home, making the hunter’s offer especially meaningful to them.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
The sea is personified as having a voice; the sea’s voice being “great” or loud suggests the fury of a storm at sea.
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— Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
The passage includes numerous examples of imagery, writing that appeals to the senses. The imagery is mostly visual as it appeals to the sense of sight: “yellow” sunshine, “tall, nodding rushes,” and “black mud”). The sunshine’s seeming “hot” and the mud’s being “soft” appeal to the sense of touch or tactile feeling. The image of sinking in the mud is an example of kinesthetic imagery in that it appeals to the sense of movement.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
A white heron is a bird distinguished by its soft white feathers; long, thin legs; long, sharp bill; and broad wingspan. White herons usually live in temperate southern climates, but those in the north migrate south during cold weather. They nest in tall trees near lakes or wetlands.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
An ornithologist is a person who studies or is an expert on birds. The hunter’s interest in birds is scientific, unlike Sylvia’s relationship with them.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
“Demure” means reserved, modest, and quiet.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
“Didn’t hitch” means they didn’t get along with each other.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
“Jaybirds” are blue jays, birds that are predominantly blue with a white chest and a black ring about the neck; they are sometimes aggressive toward other birds. The word “bangeing” means loitering or gathering around.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
In another example of vernacular style, “pa’tridges” refers to partridges, a type of game bird also called quail; “squer’ls” is Mrs. Tilley’s pronunciation of “squirrels.” The expression “to home” means “at home.” Mrs. Tilley’s speech will continue to reflect Jewett’s use of vernacular style in the story.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
“Plaguy” means annoying or troublesome.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
In context, “quaint” means unusual in an old-fashioned way; “quaint talk” refers to Mrs. Tilley’s vocabulary and pronunciations of words.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
A hermitage is the home of a hermit, someone who lives in solitude apart from the world; a hermitage by definition is usually small and remote. Describing Mrs. Tilley’s house with a simile that compares it to a hermitage emphasizes the small size of the house and its isolated location.
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— Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
The setting of the story is now more specific. New England is a region located in the northeast corner of the United States and consists of six states, including Maine. The story’s author, Sarah Orne Jewett, lived in a rural area of Maine all her life (1849-1909). The daughter of a country doctor, she often went with her father on his house calls and came to respect the country people she met and about whom she wrote throughout her literary career. Jewett’s personal history suggests that “this New England wilderness” refers to a rural landscape in Maine.
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— Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
“Ma’sh” is Mrs. Tilley’s pronunciation of the word “marsh,” which refers to an area of low-lying land, often near the sea, that remains wet throughout the year. Jewett writes in vernacular style, spelling words to reproduce a character’s regional dialect or way of speaking.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
Mrs. Tilley’s extending hospitality to the stranger indicates that she is generous by nature. The passage also suggests that she does not have much money.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
“Hospitality” refers to extending a friendly and generous reception to visitors or strangers. Mrs. Tilley’s hospitality is personified as having been asleep and is now awake. The personification suggests that it is unusual for someone to come to Mrs. Tilley’s home at the farm.
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— Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
Sylvia is described with a simile, comparing her to a flower with a broken stem that cannot hold up the flower’s blossom. The simile underscores Sylvia’s timid nature in dealing with people other than her grandmother.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
“Discreetly” means acting in way that avoids drawing attention; it suggests the desire to keep one’s actions unnoticed. Sylvia’s hiding from whoever had whistled indicates her timid and shy nature.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
The author’s description of Sylvia suggests feelings of sympathy and affection for the character that contribute to the personal rather than objective tone of the story.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
The geranium, which did not grow or flourish in the town where Sylvia previously lived, symbolizes Sylvia’s life before moving to the farm. It also contrasts the town with the vibrant natural world of the farm where Sylvia now feels alive for the first time.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
The passage underscores Sylvia’s personal relationship with nature and her love of the natural world.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
Sylvia’s grandmother is now identified by her name: Mrs. Tilley. “[T]he horned torment” is an implied metaphor that describes Mistress Moolly, emphasizing her traits that “torment” her owners. In regard to Mistress Moolly, to torment means to cause worry, trouble, or distress.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
The cow is now identified by name, suggesting again that the cow is more than a farm animal to Sylvia.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
The little girl previously referenced in the story is now identified by her name, Sylvia. “Sylvia” is an appropriate name for her since the word “sylvan” is defined as someone who spends time in the woods.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
A huckleberry bush is a “perennial” plant, meaning that it lives for more than one growing season; it is often found in the countryside and produces berries similar to blueberries.
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— Wesley, Owl Eyes Editor
“Plodding” means slow-moving; “dilatory” means being slow to act in order to cause delay. “Provoking” is defined as being irritating and causing annoyance. The cow’s being a “valued companion,” despite having these negative traits, suggests that the little girl might have no other companions; it also suggests her love of animals, which will play an important role in the story.
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— Owl Eyes Editors
The first line partially introduces the setting of the story, which will be become more specific as the story continues.