Here and there a crimson cardinal, crest lifted, sat singing deliciously on some green bough; now and then a summer tanager dropped like a live coal into the deeper jungle.  Great shiny blue, crestless jays flitted over the scrub; shy black and white and chestnut chewinks flirted into sight and out again among the heaps of dead brush; red-bellied woodpeckers, sticking to the tree trunks, turned their heads calmly; gray lizards, big, ugly red-headed lizards, swift slender lizards with blue tails raced across the dry leaves or up tree trunks, making even more fuss and clatter than the noisy cinnamon-tinted thrashers in the underbrush.

Every step into the unknown was a new happiness; there was no silence there for those who could hear, no solitude for those who could see.  And he was riding into it with a young companion who saw and heard and loved and understood it all.  Nothing escaped her; no frail air plant trailing from the high water oaks, no school of tiny bass in the shallows where their horses splashed through, no gopher burrow, no foot imprint of the little wild things which haunt the water’s edge in forests.

Her eyes missed nothing; her dainty close-set ears heard all—­the short, dry note of a chewink, the sweet, wholesome song of the cardinal, the thrilling cries of native jays and woodpeckers, the heavenly outpoured melody of the Florida wren, perched on some tiptop stem, throat swelling under the long, delicate, upturned bill.

Void of self-consciousness, sweetly candid in her wisdom, sharing her lore with him as naturally as she listened to his, small wonder that to him the wilderness was paradise, and she with her soft full voice, a native guide.  For all around them lay an enchanted world as young as they—­the world is never older than the young!—­and they “had eyes and they saw; ears had they and they heard”—­but not the dead echoes of that warning voice, alas! calling through the ancient wilderness of fable.

CHAPTER XI

PATHFINDERS

Considerably impressed by her knowledge he was careful not to embarrass her by saying so too seriously.

“For a frivolous and fashionable girl who dances cotillions, drives four, plays polo, and reviews her serious adorers by regiments, you’re rather perplexing,” he said.  “Of course you don’t suppose that I really believe all you say about these beasts and birds and butterflies.”

“What has disturbed your credulity?” she laughed.

“Well, that rabbit which crossed ahead, for one thing.  You promptly called it a marsh rabbit!”

“Lepus palustris” she nodded, delighted.

“By all means,” he retorted, pretending offensive scepticism, “but why a marsh rabbit?”

“Because, monsieur, its tail was brown, not white.  Didn’t you notice that?”

“Oh, it’s all very well for you to talk that way, but I’ve another grievance.  All these holes in the sand you call gopher burrows sometimes, sometimes salamander holes.  And I saw a thing like a rat run into one of them and a thing like a turtle run into another and I think I’ve got you now—­”