Sylvia wasn't usually in the woods at sunset, but on this June evening she was searching for her grandmother's cow.
"Mistress Moolly!" Sylvia cried upon finding the animal.
"I've been looking for you for three hours!"
Sylvia and Mistress Moolly slowly made their way home.
While the cow stopped to drink at a brook, Sylvia thought about how her life had changed.
A year ago she lived in a manufacturing town; now she lived on a farm with her grandmother, Mrs. Tilley.
Her days were filled with wandering outdoors, watching and listening to the birds.
"I never felt alive in the city," Sylvia confided to the cow.
The quiet nine-year-old was more at ease talking to animals than people.
Suddenly Sylvia flinched at the sound of a whistle—not a bird's whistle, but a man's.
"Hello! What's your name?" a young man called in a friendly voice.
"Sylvia," she whispered. She prodded the cow and walked along behind it.
She didn't dare look at the man, who was carrying a shotgun over his shoulder.
Sylvia felt uneasy as they walked together toward Mrs. Tilley's modest cottage.
"I've been hunting birds all day and now it's getting dark," he said.
"Do you think I might stay overnight with your family?"
Sylvia didn't respond. She had barely been able to tell him her name.
She was sure her grandmother would turn him away.
However, Mrs. Tilley welcomed the man instead.
After supper everyone sat on the porch in the moonlight.
Mrs. Tilley smiled proudly as she said to their visitor, "Sylvia has a way with birds and wild creatures.
There isn't a foot of wilderness around here she doesn't know."
The man perked up. "So Sylvia knows all about birds, does she?
I've been collecting birds since I was a boy."
Mrs. Tilley looked bewildered. "Do you keep them in cages?"
"No, they're stuffed and preserved, dozens of them.
I've been hunting some uncommon ones for years.
Yesterday I caught a glimpse of a rare white heron and followed it in this direction."
The hunter looked at Sylvia, hoping she would respond.
But she was fixated on a toad hopping toward the porch.
"You'd know the heron if you saw it," he went on.
"A tall, white-feathered bird with long, skinny legs."
Sylvia's heart thumped as she recognized the bird from his description.
She'd once witnessed it lurking in the marsh grass.
"I'd give ten dollars to anyone who could show me that heron's nest."
Sylvia remained silent, although she was thinking what ten dollars could buy.
Mrs. Tilley didn't have much money, yet she took good care of Sylvia.
The next day Sylvia accompanied the hunter into the woods, but they didn't see the heron.
"He seems like a nice man," Sylvia thought.
"I don't understand why he kills his favorite birds."
On the way home, they passed a landmark tree.
It was an aged pine tree, the tallest in the woods.
Sylvia had often wondered if she could see the ocean from the treetop.
Looking up, she realized she might spy the heron's nest from its highest boughs.
That night Sylvia was so restless she couldn't sleep.
It was still before dawn when she slipped from the cottage without disturbing anyone.
She ran for half a mile in her bare feet before reaching the landmark pine.
Up and up Sylvia climbed while the sun rose and the waking birds sang.
When she spotted the shining sea, she gaped at the sight.
"I feel like I could fly among the clouds!"
She peered down at the green marsh, and there was the heron, rising from a dead hemlock tree.
Sylvia held her breath as it flew into the pine branches above her.
The bird called down to its mate, which was nested far below.
But the heron was soon gone, driven away by a noisy flock of smaller birds.
As quickly as possible, Sylvia climbed down the tree and ran home.
She was eager to tell the hunter and her grandmother what she'd seen and earn the much-needed money.
They were waiting for her on the porch.
"Your hands and feet are all scraped!" Mrs. Tilley scolded.
"Did you find the white heron?" the man asked eagerly.
Sylvia's grandmother continued to rebuke her while the man appealed to her with kind eyes.
Sylvia knew his ten dollars could change their lives for the better.
And yet . . . Sylvia suddenly decided to say nothing about the heron and its nest.
She remembered how she'd watched the sea and the morning with the bird.
She could not tell the heron's secret and give its life away.
