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I saw
osiers yellow and red in quantities, but where are the orchids?"
"We must make our way farther in and search," he said.
"Douglas, listen!" breathed Leslie.
"I hear exquisite music," he answered.
"But don't you recognize it?" she cried.
"It does seem familiar, but I am not sufficiently schooled in music----"
The girl began softly to whistle.
"By Jove!" cried the man. "What is that Leslie?"
"Di Provenza, from Traviata," she answered. "But I must stop listening for
birds Douglas, when I can scarcely watch for flowers or vines. I have to
keep all the time looking to make sure that you are really my man."
"And I, that you are my woman. Leslie, that expression and this location,
the fact that you are in competition with a squaw and the Indian talk we
have indulged in lately, all conspire to remind me that a few days ago,
while I was still a 'searcher' myself, I read a poem called 'Song of the
Search' that was the biggest thing of its kind that I have yet found in
our language. It was so great that I reread it until I am sure I can do it
justice.


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