ed the boy, to whose youthful imagination physical
prowess was still the greatest grace of life. And as he said it they
reached a little rivulet so swollen by the spring rains as to be a
formidable obstacle to their progress. Steven had not considered it in
laying out their route and stood before it in dismay.

"How is thee ever going to get across?" he asked, and then under the
impulse of a sudden inspiration rushed to the fence, took off the top
rail and hurrying to the side of the brook flung it across for a
bridge, with all the gallantry of a Sir Walter Raleigh.

But the spirits of his companion were too high to accept of aid! The
strength of her lover had communicated itself to her, and with a light,
free bound, she leaped to the other side.

The boy's first feeling was one of chagrin at having his offer so
proudly scorned; but his second was that of boundless pride at a feat so
worthy of the hero whose praises they had just been sounding. "Hurrah!"
he cried, bounding after her and flinging his hat into the air.

"Thee is as good a jumper as a man," he exclaimed, regarding her with
astonishment and admiration.

As they moved forward Nature wove her spells around them and they gave
themselves utterly to her charms, pausing to look and listen, rapt in an
ecstasy of communion and sympathy. Pepeeta's familiarity with the
flowers was greater than Steven's, but she knew little about birds, and
propounded many questions to the young naturalist whose knowledge of the
inhabitants of field, forest and river seemed to be communicated by the
objects themselves, rather than by human teachers.

"Hark! What is that bird, singing on the top of that tall stake?" she
asked, pausing to listen, her hand lifted as if to invoke silence.

"That? Why, it's a meadow lark," said Steven.

"And there is another, 'way up in the top of that tall tree. Oh! how
sweet and rich his song is. What is his name?"

"That's a red bird, and if thee listens thee can hear a brown thrasher
over there in the woods."

They paused and drank in the rich music until each of these voices was
silenced, and out of a copse of dense shade by the brookside there began
to bubble a spring of melody so liquid, so clear, and withal of such
beauty, that Pepeeta trembled with delight, hearing in that audible
melody the unheard songs of the soul itself.

"What is it, Steven?" she asked in a whisper.

"Why, that is a cat bird! Doesn't thee know a cat bird? I canno