She remarked on how warm it
seemed, and began to untie from over her ears the narrow band of
veil that held close her hat.
"Yes," replied Orde. "The lumber-jacks say that the woods are the
poor man's overcoat."
She paused to savour this, her head on one side, her arms upraised
to the knot.
"Oh, I like that!" said she, continuing her task. In a moment or so
the veil hung free. She removed it and the hat, and swung them both
from one finger, and threw back her head.
"Hear all the birds!" she said.
Softly she began to utter a cheeping noise between her lips and
teeth, low and plaintive. At once the volume of bird-sounds about
increased; the half-seen flashes became more frequent. A second
later the twigs were alive with tiny warblers and creepers, flirting
from branch to branch, with larger, more circumspect chewinks,
catbirds, and finches hopping down from above, very silent, very
grave. In the depths of the thickets the shyer hermit and olive
thrushes and the oven birds revealed themselves ghost-like, or as
sea-growths lift into a half visibility through translucent shadows
the colour of themselves. All were very intent, very earnest, very
interested, each after his own manner, in the comradeship of the
featherhood he imagined to be uttering distressful cries.
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