A White Heron Sarah Orne Jewett

A White Heron 
Sarah Orne Jewett
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 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.
A White Heron and Other Stories 1