A white heronEnglish original versionA WHITE HERON Sarah Orne Jewett I The woods were already filled with shadows one June evening just before eight oclock though a bright sunset still glimmered faint

came upon her at last among the shadowy trees, and felt the queer thrill of fear as she came up silently behind her. Indeed, she was always secretly glad when the creature was found to have taken up her position for the night within easy call, and now she hurried along with a light heart and a dimpled face, her red hair flying, her feet tripping along in her loose old shoes, and the gayest little laugh in the world.

She had often wondered, since her new life began, what had become of all the boys and girls she used to know. They had not seemed to miss her, to be sure; Jack had cried himself to sleep the night after the farewell, but Billy's mother was good to him, and he soon got over whatever chagrin he felt at being left to take care of his father. She herself had slept soundly, and had dreamed of a tree full of crying little birds, and she had tried to comfort them, saying, "Poor dears, why don't you go to sleep? I'll sing you a lullaby." But this was so ridiculous a thought that she laughed herself awake.

She was twelve years old, going on thirteen, but she was very small for her age, and had a look of childish innocence and frankness that made her seem younger still. Her face was round and rosy, with large, innocent eyes that seemed to take in all the beauty of the world and reflect it back again in a kind of gladness that was infectious. Her hair was a mass of soft, red curls, and her dress, though it was old and faded, was still neat and clean. Her hat, however, was a source of great anxiety to her, for it was the only one she had, and it was so old and shapeless that it would hardly stay on her head. She had to hold it on with both hands, and this made her feel awkward and self-conscious.

As she and the cow came out of the woods and into the open fields, she saw the lights of her home shining in the distance, and her heart gave a little leap of joy. She quickened her pace, and the cow, sensing her impatience, began to trot beside her. They crossed the meadow, and came to the orchard, where the apple trees were in full bloom, and the air was sweet with their fragrance. Sylvia picked up a stick and began to beat the branches, causing a shower of pink and white petals to rain down upon her. She laughed and danced and sang, and the cow looked on with placid eyes, as if she knew that her companion was a little mad.

At last they came to the pasture bars, and Sylvia lifted them with a strong hand, and the cow went through with a rush and a scramble. Sylvia followed more slowly, for she was tired, and her feet were sore from the rough ground. As she came up to the cow, she saw that she was standing still, with her head thrown up, listening to something. Sylvia listened too, but she could not hear anything. She called to the cow, but the cow did not move. Then she saw what had attracted her attention. It was a tall tree, with a great white bird perched on one of its topmost branches. Sylvia had never seen such a bird before, and she stood still, gazing up at it in wonder and delight.

II. For a moment she had a wild desire to run away, to hide herself in the woods, anywhere to escape the eyes of the stranger; then the spell broke, and she stood there trembling and blushing, with a kind of shame that was half anger. She was glad the cow was not near her, to be touched or looked at, but only watched from a distance. She began to walk slowly away from the tree, keeping it always in sight, and feeling a strange fascination in the sight of the white bird, which seemed to be looking at her with a curious, questioning gaze.

As she went on her way, she thought of the stranger who had come to their house the day before, a young man with dark, eager eyes, who had asked her grandmother for a night's lodging. He had said he was a bird hunter, and had come from the South to find some rare specimens. He had been very kind to Sylvia, and had given her some bright, shining shells, which she had treasured up like jewels. But she had felt a little afraid of him, too, he was so different from any one she had ever seen before. He had talked to her about the woods, and the birds, and the flowers, and had told her that he was going to stay in the neighborhood for a while, and that he hoped to see her again.

She had gone to bed that night with a strange feeling in her heart, a feeling that was half fear, half pleasure. She had dreamed of the white bird, and of the stranger, and had awakened with a start to find the sun shining in her face, and the cow lowing outside.

Now she felt a sudden impulse to go back to the tree, to see the stranger again, to show him the way to the woods, to tell him all the secrets of the birds and the flowers. She turned and ran back, her heart beating fast, her face aglow with excitement. She came to the tree, and looked up, but the bird was gone. She felt a pang of disappointment, and then a sense of relief. She was alone again with the woods, and the birds, and the flowers.

III. For three days Sylvia did not see the stranger, and she began to think he had gone away. She went about her usual tasks, but with a new sense of loneliness and longing in her heart. She looked up at the sky, and saw the white cloud that had become her friend, and she felt a sudden impulse to follow it, to see where it would lead her. She ran into the woods, and followed the cloud for a long time, until she came to a little clearing, where the sun was shining and the birds were singing. There was a brook running through the clearing, and she sat down beside it, and looked at her reflection in the water.

Suddenly she heard a whistle, a low, clear whistle, and she knew it was the stranger. She looked up, and saw him standing on the other side of the brook, smiling at her.

"Hello, little girl," he said. "What are you doing here all alone?"

"I was following the cloud," she said, pointing to the sky. "It led me here."

"That's a good way to find things," he said. "I was looking for you, too. I wanted to show you something."

He took a small box out of his pocket, and opened it. Inside there was a beautiful white heron, with long, slender legs, and a graceful neck, and a crest of feathers on its head.

"Look at this," he said. "Isn't it the most beautiful thing you ever saw?"

Sylvia looked at it with wonder and delight.

"What is it?" she asked.

"It's a white heron," he said. "One of the rarest birds in the world. I've been looking for it for a long time, and I thought maybe you could help me find it."

Sylvia felt a sudden thrill of pride and joy. She knew where the white heron lived, she had seen it many times before, but she had never told any one about it. Now she felt that she must tell the stranger, must show him the way.

"It lives in the big pine tree," she said, pointing to the tree that stood at the edge of the clearing. "I've seen it there many times."

"Good," he said. "Let's go and find it."

They crossed the brook, and went into the woods, following the path that Sylvia knew so well. She led the way, her heart beating fast, her eyes shining with the joy of discovery. They came to the big pine tree, and there, high up in the topmost branches, was the white heron, looking down at them with its curious, questioning gaze