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The way back was through a narrow path beside the oven-bird's pretty domed nest, then between the tangle of wild-berry bushes and saplings, where a cuckoo had set up housekeeping, and where veeries and warblers had successfully hidden their nests, tantalizing us with calls and songs from morning till night; from thence through the garden, past the kitchen door, home.
Every hollow under the trees had become a clear pond to reflect these beauties, and lively little brooks rippled across the path, adding to the woods the only thing they lacked, running water. Instinctively our feet turned up the path to the oven-bird's nest, so narrow that we brushed a shower from every bush. There he was, singing at that moment.
Yet we could not give up a hope that she would return, and day after day our steps turned of themselves to the oven-bird's nook. This rainy day, as a dozen times before, we found the little house still empty, and as before we turned sadly away, when suddenly a new sound broke the stillness. "Wuk! wuk! wuk! wa-a-a-ah! wa-a-a-ah!" it cried.
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